Enter the King! Reprobate. Ensconced in falta synergy regale. Content to ratify the law of secunda national, the leader of farce, opulent, staring through liquid jest, near trivial rivers that flow naked in harsh summer waves of languid heat.
The son of none, the brother of all. Is it convivial despotic reluctance that maneuvers the feat of reprehense in corridors of stone? Not the wisp of broom clears the archaic dust, nor incense alone in vapor’s waif. The King despairs the entrance of dark ships into the shallow harbor, fears the octangular noose that awaits the guilty, yet sleeps content in servitude to injustice. Hail not the flag of fortune.
Rejoice my erstwhile gravity. Thread the needle with gold, yet the coat is burlap.
A beggar can’t steal the penny of some, and buy the dignity of all, to starve a nation with the bread of gluttony. – Sinz