A mad king with no crown wanders our city. He speaks about his foreign kingdom of strange custom and dance. We laugh and we spit at this foul and muddy creature. He asks our allegiance, the pauper lord. Weathless and scarred, he calls us to his courts. His royal robes tattered, his noble feet blackened and cut. He is our amusement and fear. He speaks with the certainty of the crazed; we beat him with the care of the civil.

Paradox and nonsense he deals: To lose is to gain; to fall is to fly. We abide him until he calls us by name. He has been cast from the city seven times. This king of the wild is a master of not but disturbance. He unsettles our lives. He breaks our peace. With his tongue he speaks love, but stirs only a conflict. He calls us to follow, but his royal nibs never picks up and leaves.

Why must we suffer his wisdoms? Is it so much to ask for the silence? He will rewrite our laws in order that we can end his tongue. Or else a mob will deal him his justice. There is only so far you can push good people. And this ruler of worms tries even the patience of our saints. Let us live our lives. Tell your mad tales to the trees and the birds. This man's kingdom is the realm of clouds and dreams. Though soon he may be able to be a king over a grave. May the dead call him master.

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