The Jester sways the dagger on this Sunday’s feast, although the King’s respite is a callous afair, of dogs and children with empty jaws, dropping kanters and porridge, and the laughter that pervades is superseded by the scowl of trickery and unjust treachery that bellows and heralds the abominations of those inclined to be savoirs, touting dismay through the use of sovereign sorcery. The jackel cowers to the lion and the kingdom of noble tyrants systematically refines its stalwarts to take refuge in knowing the fate for those that twist the eye of the hierarchy, disclosing any myrrh or triumph. But the jester is of dignified eminence. The restorer of reason as it is his to amuse not to partake. He sees from inept foreclosure, the speck of birdseed scattered on the sill. The lute, the Fandango, the lilting waft of cold castanets assuage the entourage’s true inclinations, shallow pretenses, the intrepid untouchables, the patrons of mirth, the Jester’s Dragons. – Sinz
