​

I sit on a bone throne picking your brain.

The court jester sings songs of sin,

of worldly men.

His feet bloody skin.

He slips and falls before me.

The court room laughs.

And I only sentence.

For these prats don't humor the humorless.

And I am here now.

Picking and pricking and prodding,

always in mind

with tentacles and instruments.

You belong to me. 

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