The Crown of the King ©2026 by ContempoJedi [Intro] Standard Rate… Standard Rate… (Standard Rate… Standard Rate…) [Verse 1l] The Countess is hosting a gala tonight, The candles are beeswax, the silk pulled tight. But look at Lord Ponsonby—fashionably late— With a tropical treasure displayed on a plate! It’s jagged and yellow, with armor of green, The strangest appendage that London has seen. [Aristocrats – hushed awe] How exotic… How divine… He daren’t slice into it, daren’t take a bite— He’s signed for the fruit at the “Standard Rate” for the night. [Aristocrats – whisper chant, rhythmic] Standard Rate! Standard Rate! [Chorus] Oh, it’s the Crown of the King! It’s the fruit of the gods! (Aristocrats: Fruit of the gods!) Ignore that it’s starting to smell rather odd. (Aristocrats: Pay no mind!) It’s been to four weddings, two balls, and a wake— (Aristocrats: Remarkable fruit!) A thirty-pound rental for vanity’s sake! Don’t touch the exterior! Mind how you choose! (Aristocrats: Don’t bruise! Don’t bruise!) It’s worth more than buckles on both of your shoes! We’re starving for supper—but look at the style! Of a man with a pineapple fixed in a smile! (Aristocrats: Standard Rate… Standard Rate…) [Verse 2] The Duke of Northumberland leans in to see, “Cayenne—or a Queen, Mr. P?” (Cayenne… Queen… Cayenne… Queen…) Ponsonby sweats as he clutches the rind, Recalling the clauses and terms he has signed. A servant advances with silver and steel: “Shall I carve it, my Lord, for the post-ball meal?” (Aristocrats: Carve it?!) “Begone!” cries the Lord with a horrified thump, “I’m not paying extra for slicing a lump!” (Aristocrats: Extra?! Extra?!) [Bridge] We’re all holding treasures we never quite own, To dazzle acquaintances barely half-known. (Aristocrats: Barely known…) A rented-out glory, a borrowed-out bloom, To reign for a moment as envy of room. If ever we tasted the fruit of the lie, The spell would be broken, the magic would die. (Aristocrats: Broken… Die…) So better to hunger and polish the show— Than risk being honest and letting it go. [Final Chorus] Oh, it’s the Crown of the King! It’s the fruit of the gods! (Aristocrats: Crown of the King!) Ignore that it’s starting to smell rather odd! Don’t touch the exterior! Don’t let it bruise! (Aristocrats: Don’t let it bruise!) It’s worth more than buckles on both of your shoes! We’re starving for supper—but look at the style! Of a man with a pineapple fixed in a smile! [Outro] By sunrise it’s back on the shelf in the shop, With a dab of adhesive securing the top. Who’s next in the queue for a taste of the fake? (Standard… Rate…)
