They wind a thousand soldiers round the king, So he may go and hear the symphony, Square squads of rhythmic lancers fashioning A boulevard of measured liberty, A ribbon two yards wide whereon the thing May prance atop a wooden steed, quite free From any heretic outside the ring Who might deprive him of his puppetry: The populace applaud the miracle, Their heads and arms, attached to hidden strings, Acclaim the venerable vehicle Precisely one of God's imaginings: The king rides like a ghost on exhibition To feed the faithful eye with superstition. |