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The diaTribe Vault
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"The king," she said. "The King is dead." "The king?" said I. "Is dead?" "Yes, the king," she said. "He's lost his head." The church bells then rang and the steam boat whistle blew, for this was the death of a powerless king in 1862. The townsfolk emerged from 'neath the streets, Dressed in nightclothes, wrapped in sheets. Who, they wondered, would be made queen, Now that the king had suffered the guillotine. Maybe Sister Mary in the nun's black suit, Or that little midget chimney sweep, always covered in soot. Perhaps it wouldn't be a queen at all, Could be another king or a chancellor or the Apostle Paul. But as the subjectless subjects roamed the streets - Gaggles of liars, beggars, and cheats. A thought occurred I could not extenguish - Our next leader should be a fish. "A fish?" she asked, for she had not yet left. She lingered always - somewhat bereft. "You're still here?" I asked, nonplussed. "Yes," she said. "Like so much dust." "A fish," I cried, "Could rule the land." "Or a cricket," she added, "On the other hand." "Shut your trap, you stupid hag," "But," she said, "with your plan, there is a snag." "The land is dry and fish need water." "And the King," she said, "Had a daughter." Smug in her point, she folder her arms. Sat back and revelled in all her charms. For the royal daughter was she, Which made her something greater than me. In one broad stroke I took her head, too. "Well," I said. "That's great for you." The sky then opened and the sea did rise, I looked one last time in her steel blue eyes. "Now," I said, "The prophecy's been filled." "You and your father have both been killed." I climbed on the balcony, and watched everyone drown. I extended my arm and held out the crown. When to my knees, the water had risen, And my balcony become a prison. A mighty cod did emerge, Playing a fiddle and singing a dirge. He clasped the crown between his lips, And suddenly, I craved fried chips. |
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