Old King’s Cold/Grail King

And the old King dies.
transcends his mortal ghost
to gain Olympian plains.
“I am the mighty he;
ruled wisely while I was allowed;
sold my soul to please the crowd;
withered on the vine divine.
There is no more of me to kick around.”
Drink from the golden Grail,
oh New Found King.
Adorned, adored, supreme.
A bright dawn upon the now
offers sparkling hope,
better days aborning.
Don’t despair poor peasant folk,
though you think despair all you
can cling to.
The Fisher King has roared in, high
on his desert adventures.
He brings ebullient tides to
slake the thirst
of this arid land.
I beg you yet again
to take a stand.
Take harness, plow your pastures.
Believe that the seed will take hold.
Listen to shamanic heralds
shouting lines in the sand.
They know great flood impends
after many a hard rain —
but don’t despair!
It is a flood of fertility,
a harbinger promising carpets of grain,
lush vegetation.
All this is foretold if you
do your part.
The old King, so long dying of dank,
festering wounds, has poisoned our past
with ill-fated rule.
Cast out the poison from your hearts.
Tend your fields with bold will
of nobility.
Never forget you are free.
Never forget that responsibility.

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