He sits on a throne made of pillbox lids,
wearing socks on his hands like holy writs.
A gown that drags through jelly-stained tiles,
and a golden crown
of tongue depressor smiles.
He rules from Room Thirteen-and-a-Half,
with a wand made from a broken graph.
His scepter leaks syrup
when the moonlight bends,
and he speaks in riddles that never end.
Candy for the Psych Ward King–
bow down, kiss the ring.
Feed him sugar, don’t ask why,
he’ll trade your thoughts for a lullaby.
He calls roll call with a xylophone bone,
humming show tunes on a dial-tone phone.
Says he once dated a ghost named Sue,
but she left him for a bottle of glue.
He knighted a mop and married a chair,
drew smiley faces on his underwear.
The nurses curtsey, the meds bow low,
as he licks his throne and steals the show.
He’s got a cape made of caution tape,
whispers secrets to a paper grape.
He says, “Reality’s a plastic spoon–
stir it wrong and you taste the moon.”
They tried to medicate his highness down,
but he painted smiles on every frown.
Now he rules the west wing with flair,
and the fire alarms all braid his hair.
Candy for the Psych Ward King–
let the gurneys dance and the IVs swing.
There’s no escape, no pills, no sting–
just cotton-candy chaos in everything.