bare-bones

dans lequel je verse du lait et vous dire que c'est mon sang

—from the lonely bust of louis xiv
came a muffled scream
trapped beneath the marble and polished stone

(with the sculptors dna in there somewhere, maybe we can clone him one day and ask about the french weather)

oh, he must be livid
raging inside like his kingdom has fallen
and it kind of has

but now it has slightly better healthcare
and enough food for its people

i guess death does not befit a king
he who reigns in life supreme
is made by death un paysan

so scream like the sun
has set fire too Versailles

you built your own coffin
and Louis so will i

but mine won't be painted in pastry pastels
and from it i won't hear violins swell and crest like waves grazing sugar dusted shores

mine will be dark and damp and small
a proper grave, a real place to lay

but the true difference between you and i
is that my roses will be roses
and not blood stains

people will marvel at your face
but they will weep at my name

strange how we'll both be bodies in the ground
when the sun blows out

(still, i will have been better than you)

Contemptuously,
                                 RB