The peasant

You. You are a craven
in a monarch's prison.
You reek of requiem;
your self-sufficient song
lays roses of guilt
on the casket throng.

You. You are no king.
You seem to think,
but we see no such thing.
We watch a wounded conceit,
and a slithering tongue
beguiling deceit.

You. You seek to use.
We have paid our dues.
We do not welcome you
with any fleck of honesty
or fervor or integrity.
We see through transparency.

You. Your gaveling hand
espouses no command.
No, not from us. Across the land
we've tilled, you've taken
from the weak. But now
our defiance has awakened.

You. Your crumbling walls
of rotted castle fall.
The sun's midday shawl
is spread; we shall fight,
and our foolish bodies will mark
the season of changing might.