Whether at court or far from home,
The Queen must always have her throne,
One the right size to take any place,
Her seat the lowly jester’s face.
She holds audience bare below,
And the jester lies beneath nowhere to go,
He opens his mouth and tickles her prize,
Giving her much pleasure between her thighs,
In such suffocating darkness he does not lament,
His sole wish that all his moments could be spent,
Cleaning and kissing within the Queen’s nest,
For of all of his chores he relishes it best.
The Queen loves her jester like no other,
Just as he wished to be the only one she will smother,
Her King is jealous and in fear she might take him to bed,
But the jester she assures is only there to give her head.
Her lowly ass cushion forever lies beneath,
Never complaining or bemoaning grief,
His only fear is some day his Queen will die,
And it is only this thought that makes him cry.
