Behold the scribe who once the pen held
Scribbling the truth to heal conscience’s wounds
He inks now a dirge for a faith once professed
Pandering to the fortune of fate
He scribbles an ode to the throne of power
His perch atop the throne threatened
By the vile rhetoric of the billowy healer
Freshly exhumed from obscurity
His loins he girds and his lips he puckers
To the rear orifice of power
Fellating the emperor’s sphincter.
His comrades in arms
Wielders of the quill
Sworn to oath
To guide power aright
Anarchists he now dubs them
And the emperor he proclaims
A victim of the people’s treason.
The people are blind
But the emperor is gifted with vision
His passion for the land burns brighter
Than their blood spilled to secure his throne.
The people are fools
But the emperor is gifted with the wisdom of the sages
The tales of his austere past that he regaled them with
Was but a metaphor for the hand
The gods had dealt the land
Enthroned at last
The people now bask in wealth abundant
Vicariously through his reign ostentatious.
But hear ye all of hardened hearts
The din sired by a thousand quills
Scribbling odes to the emperor’s infamy
Will drown not the truth
For its lone voice is louder
Than the oratory of deception
Above the melodies of praise singers
Beyond the litanies of rogue priests garbed in silken finery
The voice of conscience is everything louder than everything else.
(Inspired by the song “Everything louder than everything else” by Meatloaf)