Oh! Who’s thát there?
Why,
it’s Mr Lord High Perfectbaby,
propped
up on his throne.
He
seems well content,
surrounded
by cooing aunts.
Yet
then, as had a cloud obscured the sun,
a
clenched frown passes o’er his brow.
The
lubberlip trembles;
a
cloudburst impends.
Whatever
can be the matter?
Nobody
knows. But they all know what to
do.
The
Queen Mother is summoned.
And
while His Majesty nurses in an adjoining room,
the
courtiers discuss among themselves
the various events of the day.
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