He loads the dice, scratches the cards,
Hoists us up by our own petards;
And when low music thrills the banquet halls,
His shadow like a silent spectre falls
In grotesque imagery upon the walls.
A mad child left an empire's might
The kingdom of the day and night
And as he babbles on the palace floor,
He listens to the silver thunder roar
Like troubled seas upon some distant shore.
With froth upon a sensual lip,
He sinks in play some crowded ship.
Then lightly in an idle mood of mirth
As though it were a trinket of no worth
Down starry skies he flings some living earth.
Life's roulette table stops for him
To any cackling vagrant whim.
His own police are venal, full of doubt;
Indeed the cheapest little racetrack tout
Knows more what sportsmanship is all about.
His gold face and his jet black hair
The jewels his madness makes him wear.
His laws, a madman's irony
The moon his mask above the sea
Some morning he will turn his vacant eyes
And see the sun with jealous new surprise
And on the following day it will not rise.