Please release me; I do not protest too much. I am unsullied and I just need to go to my nine-to-five without long monologues on why I shouldn’t go to my nine-to-five.
No one has been poisoned, kidnapped, disparaged. And yet I am sometimes called to speech–some rousing, fiery, delectable shape of my tongue, that wants to blame a sack of sherry rather than my ongoing loose form of bipolar disease.
I want to be a king.
But I do not want to be murdered.
Yes, that about sums things up.