"A long road lies behind us now; we're far from humble Casper,"
So spake the monstrous zombie king, amid his wrought disaster;
"And don't you think we've done quite well, considering the odds?
We've forged an empire all our own, defended by death squads;"
"That is just so," replied his wife, herself a haggish crone,
"We've reaped the windfall profits from an upstart overthrown,
But even so, there is a price: the peasants love us not;
Our bed of gold is lovely, yes, but odium we have bought;"
"You mean to say you'd rather we were want of all these things?
These stocks and bonds, portfolios, and all your jeweled rings?
And don't forget the power of the future we can make,
Where anything that we deem good is there for us to take;
No, no, my queen, do not succumb to pity for the mass;
The ovine herd must ever follow those who have the brass;
Now, fret no more, my corpse-like wife," proclaimed the zombie lord;
"Hark thee the wailing of the throng: it strikes a restful chord;"
The withered queen relented then, reclining in her tomb,
But found no rest within her vault; her thoughts were filled with gloom;
The crying from beyond the crypt provided little peace;
Anon she rose to peer outside, seized by a new caprice;
And there she saw the wreckage that her liege-lord had brought down:
The orphaned babes, the burning walls, the rubble strewn around,
A church aflame, a wailing maid, a plague of rats and snakes,
A mindless crowd, a thread-bare shroud, a martyr burned at stake;
'Twas this hell before her that had locked her in her cave,
Away from all the suffering, apart from all the slaves;
The strength required to make that hell was awesome in its power,
She laughed to see the misery...then slept within the hour;