In the time of courts and ladies and royalty
There was a disorder that plagued the very rich.
Every so often
A king or a duke would become
Convinced
That he was made of glass
And would break
At the slightest flick of a finger
And so let no one touch him.

I wonder at the fragility of the fortunate
And the sturdiness of the downtrodden,
For not a soul who was not of the ilk of a King
Has ever believed such a perilous thing.