Ben the Bluffer Bard: The Ballad of the Sun King

The Ballad of the Sun King

It is an ancient courtier,
And he stoppeth one of three—
“By thy bright eye and noble mien,
I prithee listen unto me.

The tale I tell is wondrous grim,
Of Louis, King of France;
A god in form, a star in soul,
Who ruled through pomp and dance.

His limbs were wrought of marble stone,
His voice could shake the air;
He danced six hours ‘neath candle flame
And left no drop of sweat there.

His eyes were flames, his hair was night,
His stride could make floors ring;
A thousand courtiers fought to touch
The robe that clothed the King.

He spoke in tongues of every land,
He fenced with master’s grace;
Ambassadors in awe would weep
To gaze upon his face.

But ah! beneath the velvet red,
The crown, the perfumed bloom,
A secret darkness took its hold—
A creeping, noisome doom.

At five-and-twenty, daily purged,
His bowels chained with pain;
Enemas and sugared masks
Could not the truth contain.

He washed but twice in all his years,
He claimed it weakened men;
And so the stench of sovereign flesh
Was hid with musk again.

Then fissures burst, the ulcers spread,
The flesh began to weep;
The palace floors grew rank with death,
The courtiers could not sleep.

The surgeon came with silver blade,
No mercy, no reprieve;
They cut and burned the royal flesh
While Louis yet did breathe.

Three hours long he shrieked aloud,
The Sun King bathed in gore;
And though they drained the festering wound,
The rot would pour once more.

They filled the halls with roses fresh,
With sandalwood and myrrh;
They burned a thousand fragrant fires
To mask the royal slur.

But perfume could not staunch decay,
Nor velvet hide his girth;
The god of youth became a mass
Of pus and bloated earth.

His teeth were torn, his jaw was wrecked,
His nostrils dribbled wine;
The courtiers knelt with silken masks,
Pretending all was fine.

The gangrene blackened toe and thigh,
It climbed with searing breath;
The Sun King, lord of Europe vast,
Sat rotting into death.

Still he ruled with trembling hand,
Still issued his commands;
Till flesh gave way, and bone was bare,
And France slipped from his hands.

At last he whispered, broken low:
“Love not war as I—
For I, who once outshone the stars,
Now foul and ruined die.”

O mark me well, ye sons of kings,
O mark me well, ye proud!
The crown may gleam, the court may sing,
The grave will shroud you loud.

For Louis, Sun of France, did fall—
A lesson dread and plain:
No pomp, nor gold, nor perfumed hall
Can conquer rot and pain.