Long live the king.

Perched on his golden throne carved from  slowly decaying wood, the king gazed at the gathered poor down below at the village square.
Surrounded by well fed men in suits of splendor and beautiful women in long flowing gowns of grandeur, he assumed assurances of being loved by the people he ruled.

As he slowly rose to narrate a well rehearsed tales of grand achievements, forced chants of, “long live the king”, arose from a section of the gathered suffering masses.
Yes, they had been forced to be at the village square to sing the king’s praises or risk having their heads ripped from their shoulders.

At first, I thought my ears were playing tricks on me, but then, I remembered that, commanders of “Chariots of Death” had paid a courtesy, unannounced visit to the village, just a week ago.  No, my ears were wide open! I was hearing murmurs of “death to the king”!

Looking around, I saw unknown men, in fancy suits, mingling with the villagers; there, and then, something told me, they were remnants of the “Death chariots brigade”, sent to enforce  the chorus of “long live the King”.

It was then that it occurred to me that, seated on the golden throne curved from decaying woods is, a naked king! Looking up the hilltop where the palace stood is a glass house, occupied by a naked king surrounded by well fed men, who enforced the "love" of the masses and beautiful  women, on whose arms the king found love and shoulders to lean on in times of loneliness that filled the crowded glass palace.

Yes, for the king's pleasure, we the villagers must sing a synched chorus of "long live the king", knowing fully well we are clearly seeing through the glass house where the king lives.  Quietly, we murmur, “death to the king”. Yes, long live our naked king in a glass house!