Don King At Night


The King of Transylvito sat alone.

"Poor Slately's doom," he sighed, "is now my doom."

He listened for it, coming to his throne.

The monster -- Truth -- was breathing in the gloom.


He dropped his cup. "There comes a time," he said.

"When into every reign some rain must pour."

The Transylvino, spilling, plain and red,

Bled out, like Parson Gotti, on the floor.


"And to my Number now, I must be true."

"You hear me, Beast? I'll have my victory!"

But Truth is cold, and when its debts come due.

It only deals in harsh reality.


A deal that only laughing Fate might choose,

An offer that a Don cannot refuse.


(Note: user was awarded 15 Shmuckers for this post. -Rob)