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 leapingout to greet you. By the way, the king would love to meet you.