Written by Anselm Anderson
He sits upon his throne and licks his lips,
He counts the pounds on his fingertips.
He stands up proud and turns around;
He sneers at the baying crowd
The roar of this beast holds no feat,
As he feasts upon his nubile sheep
Red mist descends upon the air
The clench of fists, his icy glare
He bears his teeth, And stamps his feet
A solitary tear rolls down his cheek.
This! The call of the wild?
This is not but the face of a spoilt child.
He hides his modesty with a bandage,
And Spends money on his arrogance;
A wily old fox plays him at his game.
He is now a condemned spectator of disdain