When Sir
King walks this godless soil - physically no longer a babe, yet retaining his
wondrous look upon our glorious Earth - there are serfs that doubt, there are
serfs that clap, but regardless of reaction action, all serfs know in their
heart of hearts that Sir King is cut from the same gloss paper as Terpsichore,
with stupid jellied eyes glued on from the same Pritt Stick as Artemis and all
other deities with loose, naked dog's skin.
Sir King
won't forget you, will you forget him?
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