The Jester

My existence is persistence in joy, wonder and imagination —
But I somehow seem to forget my station
In this solitude, quarantined it seemed
From the monarchy of guffaws and jests and jeers,
As if I’m not a true treasure,
But a caged animal with false fears.

Their smiles, like jokers, planted and supplanted
By materialistic tendencies, such as absinthe, wine,
Sex, oils, and savory, succulent swine, not mine.
Because I have nothing but the tired and trite trials
Of repetitive, nonsensical, sickly sweet slapstick
Of a mechanical monkey-like clown
With a sulfuric system of a down.

They claw, they prick, they clamor
For the rancor that is endless greed and entertainment
Of a hideous man-made firmament, and I can no longer stand
To be their fun and festive brigand
Given the sultan’s sultry eyes upon my lady love,
The captain’s callous insults upon the lesser being,
And the utterly fake piety of the grand vizier.