by Nick Gisburne
The guns who guard him on this special night,
Who watch him as he blows a birthday wish,
Swim softly, in the circle of his bite,
The servants of a shark, the bigger fish.
Allowing only milk to pass his lips,
The evils of the empire he must rule
Are picked apart, and studied as he sips.
The feast itself, untouched, becomes a tool.
Delivered to the needy, to the streets,
The poor, the grateful, all revere his name.
He understands that when a pauper eats
A thousand thank-yous amplify his fame.
He owns the little fishes, owns the sea,
And every gift he gives is never free.
