Death of the King

“The king is dead! The king is dead!”

The cry rang along the palace corridors as I, dressed in mixed vegetables, curried favor with the Indian ambassador.

Ah, the king, the king...

He will be missed, that seedy old pomegranate. Enemies he had, plenty of those, but it was not his enemies that did him in. No, it was Father Time, kindly old geezer he, but inexorable as his seconds blend into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, then weeks, months, years, nested like leaves of lettuce.

There are those who scoff at the very concept of royalty, deriding the “divine right of kings” as a hoary old myth, remnant of mediviality, feudal folderol, like rotten tomatoes fit only for the compost heap.

So simplistic, that attitude. The king was an anchor, a beacon, one lone tall stalk of corn in a field of soybeans. How much we needed him, and how little we knew it when we had him.

I was in danger of crossing the fine line into the pondweed-infested swamp of maudlin self-pity. I was determined to resist! The needs of diplomacy must be served, and the Indian ambassador was getting fidgety. His onion suit seemed a trifle wilted. Life goes on.