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Tragedy of Prim
Let me indulge you in a tale as old as time.
Where the paths of two unlikely souls were destined to align.
Our story begins in a land they called Prim
Home to the crown, his masses and kin,
And how he crosses by a serf with dirted skin.
The peasant paid no mind to the king walking down.
Not a kneel, nor a bow. Not a word. Not a sound.
No, the peasant just continued to stare ahead blankly.
The crown was given no respect, and to this,
He grew angry.
“You,” said the king, “You live in filth,
your farm is wretched and you have no wealth.
Your cloth is ripped, ragged and torn, and I’ll bet my sheckles your wife is a w***e.
Your farm is a charity, to which none owe prosperity, and you…
You filthy insect. You’re in the presence of royalty, have you no manner?
And to this, the peasant was silent.
Days had passed with minimal excitement,
But on the seventh day, the king was given an inditement.
And in this writing was clearly transcribed
The king, his masses and kin were fated to die,
And to this, of course, our lord paid no mind.
That was the crown’s final mistake.
For only mere seconds later he heard screaming.
Cries of agony and pain, from his beautiful wife and child, burned at the stake.
He watched it from the window, their skin bubble and melt
The flames surrounding spread across the veldt, and soon
The whole court was ablaze.
It left the king in shock, in a haze.
He ran to his barn, where the animals lie,
The horses, chickens, pigs, lambs, all dead in their sty.
Their innards were ripped out, their intestines were scattered.
Their pelts and coats were submerged in blood, their brains were smashed,
and their hearts were splattered.
The king ran to his throne, and sat down to pray,
For not even the gods could predict this day
That a whole kingdom was now in flames.
The king watched as his surroundings were overruled by fire
But between the flame, the ash and ember
He saw the peasant, burned and dismembered.
His heartless eyes staring directly into those of our lord
And to this, the king was silent.