the king

I was born to be king.
That’s just the way it is.
I don’t make up the rules, I just try to live by them.

There is something inherently regal about wearing a crown.

I don’t know what it  is, but the chicks really dig it.

        See, sometimes I go out in public,
wearing a disguise –
it’s my special not the king outfit –

 and I ask them.
Point blank.

“Hey pretty lady,”
     I’ll slip into the conversation,
“You know the king?
Whadaya think about the king?”

Nine times out of ten, they’ll say they dig him.

Me, that is.

The one out of ten that doesn’t like me, who cares.
I usually don’t even have them killed.
You shouldn’t be punished just for having bad taste,  
      that’s what I think,
            and I’m the king.

You ever hear of a meal fit to serve a king?
That’s what I had for dinner last night.
I’ll bet good money that’s what I have again tonight.
     Or,
     I dunno,
     I might have Chinese.

The king. I’m the friggin king.

© 2003, Mark Hoback