What is a king if his crown is worthless? Not a man of the people, but surrounded by cultists. Praised by the loudest, loved by the thoughtless. Crowned not by honor, but by lies that were endless.

His walls crumble as whispers grow louder, Causing once-shaking hands to grip blades ever prouder. The throne he once clutched, now colder than stone, His fate sealed by the seeds of ruin he'd sown.

He feasts while his kingdom is left to rot, Drunk on his power yet blind to the plot. A puppet on strings, now tangled and caught. If he ends up dead, then that is his lot.

The crown on his head, a mockery now, A hollow gold band on a sweat-ridden brow. No glory remains, no trumpets resound, Only silence and ash on the burning ground.

Betrayed not by foes but those he called his closest friends,

Their daggers ensuring his rule meets its end. No prayers are whispered, no mourners will weep, For kings who sow torment shall fall just as deep.

When he ends up dead, the people have spoken, A crown polished with falsehood is a crown that is broken. And a kingdom built on cruelty is one which ends with dread,

The crown on his corpse was always a crown of the dead.