The Gardener

Your Highness! Accept these flowers
From your humble subject.
Those are the hand-picked cherry flowers.
The scent of it will take you to heavens.
 
Pleasure’s mine to serve you
And this kingdom. I am the gardener.
Make me the king!
That should end all our agony.
 
Adore yourself with patience
And hear me before you command.
I am the gardener who knows
The bloodless battles you fought.
 
The rarest wild Taisies at
The garden’s northest end
Have the juice that slowly poisons
One’s head and one’s senses.
 
When the generous king from Etheraile
Signed his land in your name,
Who do you think harvested
The whole lot of taisies in one eve?

The long-wired beans that grow
In summer shuts down one’s liver.
With no symptoms for two happy days,
One’s lively body faints to death.
 
When the reluctant king of Midwestland
Turned down your offer and was
Laid down in the coffin the second day,
Who do you think picked the ripened beans?
 
But the cherry flowers are soft and decent.
They give you their fantastic fragrance,
And choke you to death giving you
A few moments to utter your last words.
 
So don’t you think I know too much?
Make me the king and I shall
Give you a great funeral.
Drinking water will not save you.

That was the end of an era
For our kingdom and the land’s histories.
With all due respect I take this Crown.
Indeed his highness deserves a great funeral.