King of the hill

Every new morn,

As the sun is reborn,

The king of the hill,

Stands dead still.

Surveying his land,

Issuing no demand,

Save a smile,

To pass away the while. 

Hours of solitude pass,

As he stands upon the grass,

With subjects coming,

With subjects going.

Curteous wave for one and all,

With none seeming to appall,

Steadfast with undaunted will,

The sights do thrill.

Thousands pass in metal beasts,

Most strapped in their seats,

While safely he regally stands,

Within his barbed wire fenced lands.

Too soon the morning rush slows,

And less waves he bestows,

They come dressed in white,

Guiding the crownless king out of sight.

Broad smile of inner mirth, 

Tomorrow is another birth,

Every morn they set him free,

The king of the hill...to be.