Badger scion with coronal thorns

He would never abdicate his seat of power
He has a courtyard pianist
The pianist writes themes for his
various ways and wants of walking
to and fro, here and there
here and there, to and fro but with enthusiasm
the scion lies down on carpets of sold off sand
to bring into equation a thankful glimpse
of a sedimentary catalogue
and stole-wool plantation lilies
of soldiers who are an empire of only one
serving one, protecting one, eating only for the one
they give thanks to, eaten batteries and wastecoats
all, each of the, knowing only one
where thorns pretend to be chords theory cannot reach
and where control does not find a desire
to deceive the day, lowercase across all strata of the one
even classism is an abatement of his curtsy
to a field where desire has blood in its stems of relief
and the conquered find no one among them
has felt the sting of his soldiers’s pikes or wreathes