A peasant sits upon a stool,
staring into dying flames.
SIpping a thin, tasteless broth,
Ragged clothes upon his frame.
He sighs and stares at the weathered bowl,
And tiredly laments.
Why does hard work not pay off?
He's poorer than the rest.
A bejewled king sits upon his throne,
Feasting on fine foods.
A golden crown sits on his brow,
An outfit for every mood.
He sighs and stares at the porcelain plate,
And tiredly laments.
Why must ruling be so hard?
He works more than the rest.
