I don't bleed gold.
I bleed paint,
And ink
And other terribly assorted art things.

Yet, you pull me
By my pen
To the tip of your pyramid,
Where the women are in lines and the plates are of silver.

I am grateful, father,
That you taught me king etiquette,
But my kingdom is elsewhere
Where the women are free and we eat off our hands.

Forgive me
If I don't see clearly,
Your crown simply doesn't fit.
I'd rather have no crown that be a slave to it.