Mayhaps the King Will Giveth Me His Favour if I Defend Him in a Conversation He Will Never Hear
I prayeth He sees this
O, our King! How I do look upon Him in awe.
Though I am but a lowly peasant — my home a flea-filled dirty hovel, my toenails black as the local stew, my wyfe an old hag of seventeen — I am grateful The King made this all possible. And while some days I may look up to the skye and curse my foul fortunes, when given an opportunitye, I shall always defend The King, in case He mightst somehow learn of my good deeds one day and give me His favour.
Oft upon an afternoon when I and my fellowe peasants are out reaping barley, I’ll overhear one sayeth something such as, “I’d love to see The King spend a day working in these fields!” Others begin to laugh, and it is then that I insert mineself in their conversation and remind them that The King shall never have to labour, because He was ordained by God himself and should be allowed to sit uponst His throne in luxury and splendour all the days of His Lyfe.
By what rights doth one complain about our King?
Our King was ordained by God, just as He sayeth! Also, His father was King, and His father’s father was King before him! And His father’s father’s father was just some fellowe who convinced a bunch of people to follow him and rode into these lands on horseback and killed the original King and stole his jewels and castle, and if that was not God’s will, then whose was it?
Some eves I will be sat upon a stool at the public house, sipping my rancid ale, and I will hear the innkeep whisper, “Mayhaps this will be the last of the Royal Family.” Needst I remind him that the new Queen hath now given birth to two healthy sons and only one scaly little freak the Royal Doctor keeps in a jar? I needenst, but I do. We all know a woman cannot birth a son if God does not will it to be so, which is why The King hath an heir, a spare, and twelve more sons with womyn who are not His wife. Not to mention the daughters, but I do not count them as they are womyn.
Others may sayeth, “I won’t let my children die in a war for this King!” and I’ll shout back, “Children die, that’s what they do!” Children get eaten by wolves! Children get run over by carriages! Children starve because the grain taxes are too high! It is not The King’s fault that He needs stores of grain enough to feed His family for a thousand years. Besides, everyone knows you need to have 12-15 children, as it leaveth a good chance that enough will survive to adulthood to pre-chew your mutton once all your teeth fall out at the olde age of 35.
I imagine now you wondereth if I have many friends, and the answer is nay. Oft, many in my village see me coming and go the other way.
But this is the cost of defending The King’s honour. One day He may visit our tiny hamlet, and I will kneel and swear fealty, and He will look upon me and smile and sayeth, “O what a goode man! He spake of me with such respect all these many days. I will shower him with riches like a home with a bedroom that hath a door, a single cow, and a leech to drain that foul pus-filled boil on his thigh once and for all.” What glory! I can scarcely imagine.
Perhaps then my wyfe would allow me within one metre of her and return to sharing our pile of hay.
Lord, I prayeth He sees this. Just in case, I am going to tagge Him @TheKing.
Cow Pie Collector Kelley Greene is a scribe from Chicago who hath published many works, and they can be found on the worlde wide web at kelleygreene.pizza.