Polish the crown till it blinds the sun,
stack velvet high on the chosen one.
Gold on the plate, silk on the seat,
but hunger’s a wolf with iron teeth.
Trumpets can blare, banners can wave,
thrones can hover above the grave.
But famine’s law is sharp and true:
a starving crowd still chews on you.
Royal blood in a crystal cup,
pretty until the cupboards shut.
Empty bowls make kingdoms shake,
and crowns start looking like ribeye steak.
See how the palace walls grow thin
when the drums of the stomach thunder within.
The fork don’t care for lineage lines,
it only cares how the marrow shines.
So rule if you wish with jeweled decree,
float through halls of pageantry.
But starve the mouths that feed the land,
and watch the feast get out of hand.
Because when the tables finally flip
and the people sharpen knife and wit,
the rule of the roast is grim and true:
Royalty doesn’t stop them from eating you.
It only means
you’re first on the menu.