Classic Poem

The king is someone who came from the dark water at the end of the east
Still, we do not know his true name
The king is a fist raised toward the shadow land at the end of the west
Still, we do not know his true name
The king is ten toes and two heels that crush and grind the people
Still, we do not know his true name
The king is a dazzling head which, lost in clouds, is invisible
Still, we do not know his true name
The king is commands to do this and that, falling from a dizzying height
Still, we do not know his true name
The king is a heart that pulses eternally with the timeless earth
Still, we do not know his true name
The king is lusts that spurt up ceaselessly toward the sun
Still, we do not know his true name

We send, for the king, ships of trade toward a thousand ports
Still, we do not know his true name
We offer, for the king, blood of ten thousand people in a field at the border
Still, we do not know his true name
We continue, for the king, to plow, legs weak in the mud
Still, we do not know his true name
We dig, for the king, coarse metals in the depths of the ground, blind
Still, we do not know his true name
We willingly leave, for the king, the women of our households to humiliation
Still, we do not know his true name
We are, for the king, robbed of the last bit of grain in our coffer
Still, we do not know his true name
We build, for the king, an everlasting abode, shortening our lives
Still, we do not know his true name

The king, some say, was once a base slave at the end of the east
The king's fist raised toward the end of the west, some say, is leprous
The king, some say, is fearful of his closest aides and defecates on the stool brought in under his bed
The king, some say, is a shabby-looking old man less than five feet tall
The king's voice giving commands, some say, is as irritable and high-pitched as that of a hysterical woman
The king's heart, some say, is constantly watched by ten doctors for its irregular pulse
The king's phallus, some say, always droops like the clothbelt of his robe
Of the king's one thousand ships, some say, nine hundred never return
The ten thousand for the king's blood offering, some say, are collected from his own land
The king's mud, some say, is packed full of worms that destroy this land
The king's metal diggers, some say, have revolted at the end of the south
The women taken away for the king, some say, merely tire him
The king's key to his granary is in the minister's pouch, some say, and the king is starved
The king's everlasting abode, some say, is totally plundered, though far from completed

Still, we do not know the king's true name