The king is
now a silly thing upon whom hangs the fool
who’s taken
him to school to teach him what the deeper rule
of ruling is:
that fooling is that deeper rule, and playing is its mode:
and
generosity is its unending weather, not the tether to morality
the king may
once have thought it was: although the king now can’t
remember what
he’d thought before: whatever he had ought to be
or should have
been resides now in a bin of useless memory.
Memories are
fishhooks you don’t need when fish delight in leaping
out to greet you. By the way, the king would love to
meet you..
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