A Crown Without Consent

Through binoculars they have made me king. From behind the dense brush, bubbling spectators pin my sorrows to their lapel. They swoon over my persecution as if it would be sold out, even knitting my most agonizing trials to their costly Persian quilts. Going so far as to bottle my political grievance, their private galleries fetch handsome sums of money. I never asked to be a totem for decadent socialites trying to distinguish themselves at a garden party. Attaching themselves to my pros, they bid me to speak their words, and take up their trifles. I refuse their cause with a simmering protest. Upon their voluntary patronage my spittle shimmers. Remove me from your charity, and own me no more kindnesses. At the sound of this denunciation they leapt upon me with invective reminding me of my affliction. "Away with the libertine," they shout enumerating my sins with indignation. Rid us of this unseemly fellow. He will not be our king! Exiled for not living up to a scepter that was forced into my hand, I rejoin the high branches. Somewhere from here to there is a robe cast to the floor with a crown rolling on it's side. In the dark is where you will find me. A pair of glowing eyes nestled in the tree bough. The return of gold with black spots is the secret prayer of bourgeois spies said into their champaign classes.