I sit upon a throne and think, no king,
Nor lord, nor emperor of whom bards sing,
But merely one who has to do such things
As many others shun. They turn away
From the kind of work I do each day,
The work they thought was more like idle play.
Many are the tasks for me to do,
And few are those who ever see them through,
But did I not, I know that I would rue
The failure incompletion would bespeak.
I'd rather not such ruin on me wreak,
For to face it I know I'm too weak.
To do what I do is no easy task,
But doing it permits me not to bask.