King Sprat Poem by Paige Welch

Oh poor tsar of Laray, weeping forever,
A man of great nobility, King Sprat
Though many a man think him a filthy rat,
Pity upon the soul shall ne’er endear,
The horrid sadness for the engineer.
The tears of great King Sprat are large and fat
His sorrows are collected in a vat.
But not from his lips is ushered a cheer.
He melds into the walls with his sadness
And though he knows many think him a fraud,
His mind still remains on all things bizarre.
And now all his eyes see are the blackness.
And though he knows he is greatly flawed
He stays upon a stool and plays his guitar.