Classic Poem

They wind a thousand soldiers round the king,
So he may go and hear the symphony,
Square squads of rhythmic lancers fashioning
A boulevard of measured liberty,
A ribbon two yards wide whereon the thing
May prance atop a wooden steed, quite free
From any heretic outside the ring
Who might deprive him of his puppetry:
The populace applaud the miracle,
Their heads and arms, attached to hidden strings,
Acclaim the venerable vehicle
Precisely one of God's imaginings:
The king rides like a ghost on exhibition
To feed the faithful eye with superstition.