fro’ battle of Ronaldsway,
far from gasps of Fo Hallo, and Iree-Magh,
cometh kingdom of mann and isle,
peel castle is the wet sun.
tis around time of the last norse king Magnusson,
lo’before Tynwald Days and the one only road,
Isle of Mann,
hoptu naa is Halloween Day
besides soddag vallo,
their turnip with anger face has a smile.
“it is only early december of a young Winter King”
someone to be king and him is He.
this Winter King see his reflection in every snowflake.
as per his shaven Caesar skin , his whiteness preserved.
over this skin naked as napkin,
body ensconced in faux polar fur bathrobe, it is only gown he wear,
bedraggled now over snowy face of floor.
in his grand opera pantheon,
he tastes morning air.
it tickle through his blueish-blondish Gentile hair curls-akin to Alexander would, have.
from precipice of Enger Mountain lair,
him and his Janitor.
the mortal Janitor with passive Hessian-aggressiveness,
simmers quiet tea kettle,
he has worked for many rulers change course of the year ,
throughout springs and summers.
the spring brings rain but sunny days,
the summer brings sweat and lawns to be mowed.
the last monarch haughtily got rid of leaves, had halloween exploits
fueling wonder with starchy colors.
he fell dead in an
autumnatic free fall in a leaf pile.
the Janitor just raked and built that leaf mass grave.
and here’s to another king.
the Winter King’s rule begun when heavens cotton
gave, coronation to the amateurish winter emperor.
the season was fleece and sheepish.
the Janitor is filled with the zealous indifference
to his majestic sovereign satisfying
reign of cold crystal delights.
the young Winter King white privilege display
padding down fluffy down by footprints as soon as
Janitor picks the snow up.
everywhere the Winter King sneezes or blows his nose,
the kingdom freezes, it froze;
from what is his chilly
this cold barrage of banter rattles the hut formed by coniferous and warmth,
is where Janitor reads in there.
the Winter King’s work leaves Janitor bounding behind him working in the open air igloo.
the Janitor’s main weapon, the shovel, could not easily erase the snow.
Janitor believes that winter is indeed the stubborn season of chaos.
it breeds water formations that cannot be chiseled by pick or mop.
when the season doused pine trees in anti-fire perspirant.
and hot chocolate roads topped in frothing, the king’s court
the nazi snowman, ice princess, and the snow angel throw snow
everywhere leaving a tintinnabulation with
cups, plates in dead freezing imprisonment.
in a silver chair made out of tongue smooth glistering glycerine,
sees and sniffs a pile of steam emit from screens in streets far away.
he stares smoking a charred icicle hating the hot.
“someone to be Winter King, and him is me.
I am the winter before the oxygen,
when I wink , I make breaths, ” pronounce frigid winter Shah.
done with his icicle cigar, he hammers it on the cocained floor with a heavy fur boot.
and continues to stare hating that hot he sees from shady Sun.
the Janitor, whose name is Adam, was built first before leaders,
loves the hot core in his human torso.
there in that hut feeling from the pores, the gusty real snow,
he fantasizes through imagination on what must be done with that
there will be a great echo to break loose the scalding cold seams
a vesuvius, earthquake break and the whole steel cold structure
will be all chipped and cubed and crumbling down.
and there will be a soda drink and just ice for the Janitor.
LAD To AMR 12/17