The Year King
Do you even remember how it all began?
How you were raised high upon the shoulders
of the people’s will and praised; how wine ran
like a river from the tongues of shareholders?
Perhaps you really think you were born to this:
to be a king anointed for everlasting reign
forgetting how power’s pointed, poison kiss
is a cyclical thing. Yes, there’s bite in that champagne.
And sure, you’ve lasted well beyond the usual term
of Year Kings, soaked in glory, sex and booze
but self-adulation has provoked the angry worm
to turn at last and face you down, appalled by news
of how you partied even as the people died
and shirked the sacrificial nature of your role.
We, all of us, are tired, overworked. You lied
and lied again. There should never be parole
for kings who cling to power’s vanishing thread
when the contract’s been sullied and abused.
This pact is with the people. Watch your tread.
Popularity counts for nothing when they are not amused.
For more information on how this poem came about, see the current news cycle and this extract from The Golden Bough.
