[The bard clears their throat, tuning their lute as the fire crackles, and the crowd hushes—if only a little—hungry for news and drama.]
O come ye near, and lend an ear
To tales from gilded halls,
Where Sun King perched upon his throne
Outshone the world—and all.
He rode into the summit grand
In cloak of gold and pride,
With hour-long thunder, wagging hand,
While reason ducked and died.
The stewards begged, ‘Speak but a spell—
A quarter hour, no more!’
But Sun King spoke and spoke and swelled,
A tempest at the door.
‘The climate’s just a fairy tale,
A trick! A con! A ruse!’
He roared so hot the candles failed—
His ego lit the fuse.
The courtiers fanned him, fearing wrath,
The commoners rolled eyes;
For every word, the hourglass sand
Spilled hope and patience dry.
So raise your cup for pomp and show—
For smoke and gilded glass;
The Sun King fears what he won’t know,
And warms the world with gas.
Not every king who claims the sun
can brighten up the night;
Sometimes a tavern’s candle flame
brings more true, honest light.
So as the embers crack and fade,
let’s toast to wit and nerve—
for laughter, truth, and common sense
are what the people serve.
[The bard bows, and the tavern erupts in knowing laughter, a few voices muttering about the price of firewood this winter.]
