prologue
‘The good singers of old time’ had a way We don’t with rhyme. All the words we have, we’ll Tell you, in all the ways we know how to. ‘The good singers’ this time do from Bédier Borrow. A turn here and there, we’ve stolen From Shakespeare—and cribbed from chum-Chaucer a Verse or a bar. No word here’s original; Nor phrase aesthete. We never learned how to Score lines with metric feet; so with selfsame Couplets, our tale is replete. Far from perfect— Our rhymes are all near. You’ll hear we all too often cheat. Don’t think the’fforts of singers half-hearted. Had we been versed in verse, schooled in sonnet— We’d seem rehearsed. The nose, we’d be on it. We prefer our art brut—from mainstream, we’ve parted.
We’re no virtuosos when it comes to our quills. Forgive us—we’re slatterns who squib with no skills. Slang is our speech. We play fast and loose with diction. Our syntax: so predict’ble as to cause affliction. If you favor Tom Stoppard, or’ve English Degree, Beware. Our verse is often blank; our melody, free. For wont of knowledge, and/or the will to try— Our rhymes might sound lazy. You won’t hear us deny We’ve made a tepid-porridge out of dramatis personae. All faults poetic, we hereby disclaim By way of prologue; in the argument’s the aim. We’re self-taught play’rs, not geeks parsing pros’dy— We’re freaks who make theatre, rude-mechs roughing-rhapsody. But with sincerity-of- heart appliquéd on our sleeve, And the tale told forthwith, we hope we’ll our aim achieve— And soon from our prologue we will grant you reprieve.
‘The good singers of old time’ told tales for lovers; We feel the time’s nigh to tell stories for others— You’re this prologue’s welcomed addressee If you yearn to spurn systems of control and break free: Subjects in states of listless abjection; If you dominate in bed or by indirect election; If your tastes are vanilla; if you’re gray (an asexual); Pigs who like it raw; prigs who keep it conceptual; Listen close, all ye who know from oppression— Though we work in dialectic, don’t mistake our lesson. We’ll spin you a tale of a hero’s subjection; But hark ye to our credo: know not genuflection. By our play’s end, we hope you’ll agree And applaud. (The title’s odd: Kings such as He.)
So listen to a tale told by troubadour Which sounds as if it’s old from days-of- yore, Of promiscuous obedience transmitted mimetically; We all still submit to modern-day monarchy. The bondsman, the broker, the monarch, the prince The sovereign, the ruler, all these names evince The same notion: an external entity Which regulates the soul, so it never can be free Why make an oratory out of “history” Take it for what it is, not what it wants To be—two words: “his” and “story.” It’s time We unstuck them. But just whose “his” is this, affixed parasitically? That’s the mystery—but also: go f*** him.
We beg for your prayer, and hope all who’re near, Whoever you are—whatever you fear— Those broken-hearted, and those still in love— Those in mourning for their dear departed, above— Those who are waiting: let our song be your lodestar From which wishes are granted; let our odes take you far. May all who hear what we sing here, tender— From the Angel of Justice to the Apostate-Pretender: Let our song bring you now some hope of splendor. And please if you like us, refer us, for the services which we render. We have traveled widely, telling all while close-confiding To tune of ill-tuned lute for naught but what good-will bought Pruned of fruit, earned from reciting (no scenery; no lighting). Let us now together go and address wrongs by rewriting.
We sing a song for all those not yet woken Of how power’s born—and then, how it’s broken; The which, if you will listen, we’ll now sing: Once upon a time, there was a hero in search of a King.