I'm a cartoon king, imaginary thing,
Suvro thought me up an hour ago.
My kingdom I think, is on the brink,
Of being written as the rhymes flow.
For a start in the corner, a barbershop,
Has scissors made from gold.
Maybe not so, but anything can go,
Just repeating what I have been told.
I have a sinewy charm, but no arm,
So I may not look very happy.
Random are the forces, I don't like horses,
I walk to my kitchen for tea.
I'm sad, it's obviously bad,
I look a little podgy.
The artist's whim, I'm just a dream,
He has license to be dodgy.
The moustachioed look, I might spook,
A child not used to facial hair.
The hairpiece looks what it is,
A bald king can get a lot of stare.
But the hair is good, it relieves his mood,
The depression lifts a little bit,
Drawing lines one after the other,
Shows how unreal his wit.
I can't lie, he wants to die,
But he still thinks he can be of use.
Deluded a little, his feelings brittle,
Even I know that's a futile ruse.
My eyes reveal, can't conceal,
The sadness in his heart.
I'm supposed to be a happy king, but
I'm off to an awful start.
