The king shot elephants,
he shamed forever his grandchildren
and now like an old pachyderm
he limps close to the Stygian lagoon.
He carries an erect cold of crotch
before of blondes where they ignited flames
and his decrepit gesture curses the sorrows
already without anything where to put his look
except the withered legacy of his kingdom.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: history,man