There once lived a Persian king
who loved his wife more than any other thing
Schahriar was his name
and he was beloved throughout his land.
But one day he found out misfortunate news
that his wife did wrong him, abused
he felt by the deceit, cursing – expletive-delete
he did meet her with his own torture
the order to kill her given to his guards.
From that day forward, no more good words
could be heard from the Sultan towards
any woman, for he grew to hate all of them
seeing only lying and trickery,
hiding around-corners and under-bed-sheets
fly by knight delights and broom-stickery.
And so did he decide with hurt pride each night
to take a new wife, to lay with her upon velvet chairs
and fur-niture, armoire not armor but there was no amore
“Nevermore!” he was jaded, Persian empire
weaving its yarn never faded, each night before fading
he had them for the taking, but with the passing of the evening
bringing new morning dew, love-lost lacking-luster
he had them slewn before noon
leaving the town singing a tune-blue as the night’s sky
tissues strewn tears of Why.
There was a man responsible for bringing each day a new girl
to the Sultan irascible, he was the vizir both grand and a father
soon to be bothered that his daughter, none the wiser
requested to be brought to the chamber-room of the King
knowing despite that the next day she would be-headed
straight for the acquainted be-heading
strangle-hold on fate seemed inevitable,
paternal-miserable but consensual to bring her deliver-able
to Schahriar the formidable.
But the daugher Scheherazade was her name, had a plan
a way to end this cursed fate terrorizing the Persian land-scape
her beauty was matched by her wits, and so she did persist
to insist to be fixed up with Him for the sake of her beloved nation
and when the time came to engage in recreation
she cried a tear asking the Sultan if her sister could too be brought here
to sleep with them that last night of her life,
he agreed – it was only right.
For this was all apart of her plan, Dinarzade her name
came to lay with them nocturnal rehearsal in the morning
she would awaken her sister an hour before the day-broken
“Come hither, won’t you please, and tell me a story?”
Scheherazade asking the King could it be, he agreeing willingly
and so did she tell a story most ravishing throughout
the rest of the day, but saving the ending for the following
may she proceed to relieve the Sultan’s suspense
only if he kept her well-kept.
In this way, each day a new story was told by the beautiful
and wise daughter of the vizir, Solomon of Old,
the fin-ish added as a latter dish to come
with the bird-humming of a new morning
until in sum a 1000 and 1 tales were told,
the same number of days had passed
til at-last the Sultan Schahriar made Scheherazade
his true wife and Queen.