Wenceslas

King Andrew sits upon his camping chair,
gazes round a breakfast circle; cooking
on a campsite, frying sausages;
eggs are cracked and smells of coffee

snake along a breeze to rise and enter
into now. Everything is set for feasting
and a sunny time’s on hand;
morning’s up and a King surveys his land!

But wait - what is this quality called King?
Why do people rush to cook him breakfast?
Why do people serve a man, this elf?

At once a warm and gracious King
adores his people more than judges;
loves them for themselves.