Expertly deprived of sleep,
the King slithers across a
safehouse living room, robes
tracing a circle.
His salutations are dead.
His peasants come apart from him.
They don't
understand, but they like to think
They do.
He is “working toward
Improving the lifestyle of many, and to
give the people the privilege of...”
Yet he is not,
But let us pay loyalty for his prize,
For it's a red apple
which pushes him forth on the blood-red Carpet
of Vain—he takes a bite,
and this is how he must live his life
In order to live.

The city is his sanctuary
A place to abscond
When he starts to wonder, “Does the
world deserve
to have my conscious body, the way
that they do?”
The King whispers this lamentably.