He knew it would take muchos huevos to play,
but his game plan was good, and he’d be okay.
Cause his were as big as the black or the bay

patrolling with tabletop backs that were stacked
with corrupt, hairy pigs who loved to talk smack,
and who bristled with weapons to fend off attack.

And, though the opiners would say it was rash,
he never could stand it to sit on his ***.
So, he hurled his armored gelatinous mass

with a splurge of insouciance at all those legs.
The guards slung pejoratives – bent to fillet
his ovoid trajectory into a splay

of malfeasance – but their slashes only caught air
as he flew like a mortar past their stony glare
and that bold lettered sign he had read as a dare:

“Tis Forbidden To Sit On the Wall” -- the King