When the king sat on his throne
He brought his advisors into view
Blessed with soldiers and not one drone
To spy on the masses as we currently do
He beckoned with his index in ceremonious pomp
Drawing his inner circle ever nearer
Visibly tired from a soiree of sexual romp
His visage nevertheless striking hearts with fear
Alas, my sages, let's have a word
I seek counsel on matters of imperial rule
To ever use force is patently absurd
Pursued by the desperate
Or short-term fools
Let's conjure up magic means
To shakel the masses to my every whim
Let's infiltrate even their dreams
And make resistance as rare as a soup
From the shark's fin
Over weeks and months the royal team toiled
The regent emerging all-smiles at last
Dissing the emperor would finally be foiled
With a toxic potion mixing
Risky thoughts from the past
Winner takes all and losers eat dust
While currency rules the land
Non-conformists can only go bust
So rare is the helping hand
The meeting adjourned and the ideas were spread
Like percolating water amidst every coffee grain
Imperial stores ensuring all were well fed
Sleep doctors and their shapeshifters never failing to entertain
The happy palace created new saints and angels from among the loyalest fans
And sinners with devils derived from foes
A new normal flipped from frying pans
A butt-naked emperor
Presented in new clothes
~ Gunnar Våken
