Extra NaPoWriPo poem: The King

He slept in his palace with his dishonest advisers scheming, his heart too royal to care.  If they told him to boil the fool, he'd snap his fingers for the cauldron, watch the atrocity himself.  The artists really made him upset.  Anyone writing on a piece of paper was subject to search, to make sure it was really a laundry list and not a poem.  Sometimes it was a list -- soup, baking powder, pork chops -- and she'd still be brought to court to answer for her subversion.  The dungeons below were filled with rhymes and sonnets, with laureates and outsiders shocked with electrodes, which made them laugh.  Somewhere someone was picking up lettuce and tomatoes.  Someday that salad would start a revolution.