The Emperor Is Dead, Long Live The Emperor

The previous Emperor that we had

(Not the incumbent chap, I mean his dad)

Wore lavish clothing, worthy of his place.

His gowns were of pristine, exquisite lace;

The smallest stain stood out like deepest ink.

(The gods forbid we saw--what would we think?)

So mammoth were the jewels within his crown

The slightest breeze would bring the whole mess down.

Ten thousand stitches pierced his garments' hem

And children could see what was wrong with them

If even one displayed a torn-up thread--

A royal travesty. But now he's dead

And his discerning son has come to power.

New tailors now strive in the royal bower.

Their finer skills are certain to surpass

The simple artisans who had no class:

They weave such stuff as no one but the wise

Can understand, and therefore, criticize.