for milk and sleep and wooden rattles
and a soothing lullaby
Now he is a strong young man
and still we see him cry!
Poor heart is broken
Weak mind is weary
He simply wants to DIE
Cyrus’s eyes flew open. His fists had clenched, unbidden, but there was no one to fight; nothing to see.
“Did you bring me here to mock me?” he said quietly, turning about the room. “What is it you want tonight?”
Oh, the jester is a lonely sort
who seldom gets to play
despite the jokes he loves to make
of witless, greedy Clay
Cyrus stiffened. He bade himself be calm despite a creeping instinct to panic.
With forced composure he said, “What does that mean?”
Clay girls and boys
my favorite toys!
Soon they’ll come together
And she will choose
and you will lose
to a clod tied to a feather
A muscle jumped in Cyrus’s jaw. “I don’t understand your infuriating riddles. But I have reason to hope Alizeh is going to accept my proposal. She said as much to me earlier –”
Poor Clay brain is made of dirt!
It cannot solve a puzzle
Poor Clay heart
it falls apart
A frail, decaying muscle
“Enough,” the young king said angrily, fruitlessly searching the room for a face. “I let you spout your senseless rhymes at me for hours without complaint, but you’ve already forced me to endure your loathsome presence once this interminable night, and unless you intend to torture me again, I’ll take my leave. Besides – I’ve lost nothing yet. I still have plenty of time to uphold my end of the bargain.”
Time and ice are much the same
they slowly disappear
