Those who are kings

See you that man who sits upon the corner
Tired and ragged, withered by his age
Poorest of the peasantry
Worthy of no name

How often have you passed him
And frowned in mild disgust
Or decided that he wasn’t worth a look

He sits upon his concrete thrown
And gazes on his humbled hordes
Smiling his contented smirk
For every pawn has learned his place

So smooth is his machine
That every cog is right on time
Every nut clicks in his time card
Every bolt is at his desk

The machine runs ever silent
As it makes more nuts and bolts
Designs and builds more cogs
To add unto itself

So ever twists the spiral
And the machine does not but grow
Crafted out of iron scraps
Or melted polished gold
Caste into a pre set mould

The lands have so been set
The people now made blind
So there they sit and watch
The men who have one eye

From their corners on street
Neath their newspapers piled high
They did not build the engine
Nor know of how it runs

But in a world of rock and steel
They have retained their flesh
Where hydraulics run it all
Their blood runs warm with gin

They are Kings.

By Richard Herring

(Age 17)