Mortal Dreams

Call in the trumpets,

Tell them I am here,

Seated on my throne,

Sipping slim beer cans,

And petting drowsy lions,

Juggling machines and toys,

Twirling ballerinas twice too early,

Saluting marching ants,

Counting bowed heads,

Drenched in regal glamour,

Touching eyes, and ears,

And whatsoever in need of miracles,

Snoring at the jesters mistakes

Breathing shallow smoke




Standing up, in mighty grandeur

Lifting my hand in one last wave

Terrifying the slithering snakes

Casting spells on jurists and more,

Trembling hands part

As I begin to descend

Deep within my ground

Interred in between haughty speeches,

As my drowsy lion wheezes

As my loyal servant (Sheikh-e-spear) shouts:

“Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil”