Rockin’ Riddle

This king fell from his throne
while expelling air, alone,
dying with a morsel in
his mouth, near the porcelain,
rump up toward the ceiling,
face on the floor, unfeeling
because of opioid pills
he took to fight off his ills
as he squatted in his place
within this land, named for Grace,
his followers afterwards
migrating like Summer birds
to his kingdom of rhinestone,
pink cadillacs, jungle zone,
and all the things left behind
by a king, one of a kind—
trailer park glitz and glamour
for which the women clamor;
a man who could rock his hips
while crooning with his snarled lips.

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