The forge’s heat.
The hammer’s strike.
The force that shapes
and smiths with smite.
Upon the anvil
of The Devil
by the name of
Mephistopheles.
What is he working on?
A special order
regally commissioned
by The Crimson King.

He brought
the sketches
and the ore..
the jewels which
would soon adorn
the crown upon
his jester’s head.
The same authority
by which he lived..
he shall embrace
his Death.

King Midas wished,
but Crimson won’t
submit himself
to human wont.
His folly runs
much deeper still..
through tragic comedy
of the absurd..
presiding over
human will.

There is the hand
that coronates..
and then the head
that wears the crown.
There is the face
that grins.. and,
on the other side,
the face that frowns.
The clown who jests
and harlequines..
and then the sovereign
who justly rules.

God save us all,
The King is dead!
Long live The Fool.