The Ballad of Dickleweed Thorne, Rat King of Briar Hill

Gather close, good people, For this tale be sour and worn: The mud-throned little monarch, Dickleweed Thorne. He ruled from atop Briar Hill With his bottle-cap crown, Called himself a king While the whole place broke down. Dickleweed Thorne was a greedy little rat, If someone else had shine, he thought it should be his. He needled and he wheedled till the walls all learned his voice. He called each want a need, declared every no a crime. But everything he grabbed turned bitter in his fists, And still he swore the next thing was the thing to make him whole. He stacked his little kingdom into rooms of rot and dust, A spray-painted bottle cap tilted on his head. Piss jugs by his throne like bottled trophies of disgrace, Stink bugs danced in the rafters and garbage piled by his bed. He wanted royal comfort, but refused to do the royal work; Just a rat king with a banquet made of crumbs and blame instead. Bow down, bow down, To the lord of almost-gold. Bow down, bow down, To cowardly men growing old. Bow down, bow down, To the crown already peeling. Bow down, bow down, What a tiny-hearted king!! This is the Ballad of Dickleweed Thorne, Former Rat King of Briar Hill. Built himself a throne out of trash and mud, Then wondered why it made him ill. He threw away the loving, living gold, Then demanded payment still. The Great Programmer struck the gavel: Rat King, be dethroned! He wore his charm like Sunday clothes, All polished grins and practiced lies. Told the world his house was peaceful, While he dimmed his queen’s bright eyes. He fed on all her hard labor, Then called her love a debt. A snake was in the doorway, But she had not named him yet. Mother’s Day came dressed in quiet, A day already lined with ache. He flashed his little secret Like a knife he claimed was fake. “Oops,” he said, all sugar, But the cruelty had a shine. He knew exactly where to cut And chose the tenderest time. This is the Ballad of Dickleweed Thorne, Former Rat King of Briar Hill. Built himself a throne out of trash and mud, Then wondered why it made him ill. He threw away the loving, living gold, Then demanded payment still. The Great Programmer struck the gavel: Rat King, be dethroned! Then came the forms, the pressure, The sign-here-or-else command. He wanted her name for leverage, Wanted her future in his crushing hand. Per vim, all in proper order, Truth hidden in the lines; He thought he’d forged her shackles, But she documented every one of his crimes. Exhibit one: the crown. Exhibit two: the throne. Exhibit three: the jugs he filled And thought she should atone. Exhibit four: the stink bug choir. Exhibit five: the fraud and debt. Exhibit six: the queen survived his assassination attempt; And he ain’t learned his lesson yet. No crown. No claim. No queen To blame. No throne. No key. No hand On me. No debt. No chain. No more Rat reign. So if you find him wandering With mud dried on his pride, Still hunting for a servant With a kingdom in his mind, Tell him Briar Hill remembers Every rot-root he had sown; The queen walked out with fire, And the rat king fell alone. This is the Ballad of Dickleweed Thorne, Former Rat King of Briar Hill. Built himself a throne out of trash and mud, Then wondered why it made him ill. He threw away the loving, living gold, Then demanded payment still. The Great Programmer struck the gavel: Rat King, be dethroned! A bottle-cap crown. A mud-rotted throne. A stink bug hymn In a house overgrown. He wanted a kingdom. He wanted control. But gold knows gold, And rats know holes. Farewell to Dickleweed Thorne, The former Rat King of Briar Hill! The Queen now rules in his place; Her queendom thrives without his ilk!