I Pity Your Highness

So you think you're so high
with your view of the sky,
squishing everyone else
under the weight of your penthouse.
Oh how your mightiness oozes!

And every night in my bed--
after reading Wall Street's latest--
I stare up at the ceiling
and pray
to the most recently trending
deity that one glorious day
I will share in your way.
You already assumed this of course.

Your omniscience is revered by all.
It is told in story-books
to impressionable children, naive and small;
between savouring his boogers
and enjoying the cool drool sliding down his chin,
little Junior developes sincere aspirations
to delve into capitalism.
Good riddance to the monsters under his bed,
they're about to be sued to the closet and back.

And that's why you have no friends.
Had you a heart,
you would flood your bed
every night with tears that you would shed.
But you have not this to dread,
nor thoughts in your head,
nor lovers in your bed,
nor morals to be addressed.
The way you slaughter children overseas
in your smoke-puffing factories,
these trifles would merely disrupt your activities
from day to day anyway.