In deepest shadows of forest floor,

From nurturing dank and errant spore,

Parasitic fungus, nothing more;

He plots his ill design.

Devoid of cells that project good,

He feeds upon the living wood;

Selfish gorging all he could,

His lust ensured his time.

Tho’ weak and frail in early days,

He lies, deceives to earn his shade,

Distracts from cunning escapades,

While consuming offspring flesh.

Deserving nobles, looking down,

Observing fresh and forming crown,

Upon imposter, they do frown;

But ignore him nonetheless.

To them he poses little threat;

Too small to earn a second’s fret;

Unaware of what he’ll soon beget,

They simply look away.

Then, while the nobles slept one night,

He raised his crown, vindictive plight,

Releasing spores in warring flight;

For he had earned this day!

In weeks that passed, each spore took hold;

To leach the breath of young and old;

His grand design, as he foretold;

He hears his armies sing.

With beat of living, lifeless felled;

Opposition now dispelled;

His laughter, rich—crown so swelled;

As all--bow to--the King.