Regicide

The king that’s bound upon the throne
Won’t be getting beauty sleep
Serving the needs of eager gimps
Whilst the reaper waits to reap

Whilst shattering his rib cage in
They talk of injecting bleach
Taking out the tongue of the dog
Infringing his right to preach

His skin it starts to flake away
Freeing the meat from within
From him they feed the unterklasse
And all of his saintly kin

A face full of flowing plastic
A breath stuck fast in his throat
Now he warmly embraces life
Sweetly he kisses the goat

The corpse he leaves in finery
Cast into a lowly ditch
Not one thing left out of balance
No not one loose thread or stitch