No soul so misunderstood as he,
the painted fool, the jester free.
Not born to rule, nor gold to claim,
yet in his hands, the world’s own game.
A flick of wrist, a tumbling jest,
he turns a courtly sigh to zest.
A fool in name, a sage in guise,
he spins the truth in shrouded lies.
By candle’s glow, by throne’s decree,
he dances near powers that be.
With whispered taunt and knowing grin,
he pricks the pride that swells within.
A merry tale, a fleeting jest,
to lay a tyrant’s mind to rest.
Yet in the laugh, a hidden plea,
to shape a fate no man can see.
A jest today, a war undone,
a kingdom lost, a battle won.
For fools may dance and fools may sing,
but folly bends the mind of kings.
ImpChimp Art 