When I was a child, I pretended to be the king and rode my pony in mock battles against the cannibal hordes from the plains. I had a child’s view of the world.
But childhood ends.
My fearsome pony is old and my plow is dull, the black pox has taken many, and the cannibal hordes are on the march.
We sharpen our plows and pikes, an army of farmers. We fight the cannibals and defeat them. Help never comes from the king.
Tomorrow I shall lead my army to the capitol.
I wonder how it is to be king.