Vaba Banga
by Mark Vanner, January 10th 2023

A mystic of sorts;

he reads people's arseholes.

Sniffs out bad omens.

Predicts future catastrophes.

It's dirty work, the mystic says,

tracing the lifeline of the King's

wrinkled sphincter.

But without foreknowledge,

this Kingdom would have fallen

to the treacherous Scots and revolting

Republicans, decades ago.

Quite right, the King Says.

I foresee a time of peace approaching, Sire,

the Mystic says,

peering into the great cavern

of the King's hairy rectum.

Good, says the King.

It will last for three days and three nights,

says the Mystic.

And then much death and bloodshed

shall rain from the sky.

Excellent, says the King.

Should we prepare the victory feast?

The Mystic frowns.

To be certain of victory, Sire,

I will need to read the arseholes

of all three princesses, Cilla the handmaiden,

and your loyal dog, Duke.

Of course, says the King.

I will also need to make love to The Queen

several times a day.

I wouldn't expect anything less, says The King.

After all, the fate of our fair Kingdom

rests entirely on your mad,

but occasionally accurate, rantings.