The Frog King

I heard a fly buzz when I died.

The insult was I was still alive.

Wearing my crown and little else besides,

There sat one cousin where once sat five.



The bastard chorus still sounded

From the low lying squelch outside.

Would they not stop? How my head pounded!

Day shone bright when their king died.



Wait. I had not closed my eyes, and thus could see

The smug-n-sorrowful filching of my things.

The four have left, carrying a throne, a wife,

my first spawn: such is the death of disposable kings.



"I cannot breathe" and "the end is near"

I make a show of it, nostalgic for the monsoon.

My cousin hops tearful to my head, my bed

The dirty bum buzzes 'gainst the square heat of noon.



With triumphant rude laughing eyes

His fat self saw what will soon be bog news:

A tongue long-prized, now too weak to reach.

The tiny reaper buzzed, awaiting payment of his dues.