I sit upon the throne, pondering all
The things that in my too-short compass fall,
Thinking that they come under a pall
For the simple fact of being mine.
I know the view of me's not always kind,
And though with it I'm usually fine,
There are times that it sits with me ill,
And I perceive a hole I want to fill
By some new means and not a tawdry thill.
No shovel, though, is ready to my hand,
Nor is a pickaxe, better for the land
In which I live, so idly I will stand.
And stand I must; the seat has numbed my own.
Such comes to one who long sits on the throne.
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