Sir Peasant

The landed gentry enslaved me.

My labor’s exchanged for accommodation. I’ve none with which to afford food.

I toil sixteen hours a day. My child pilfers.

He’s naïve to the reality that birthright decides fate.

“I’ll be king one day,” he said.

“Hail ‘King Arthur’,” said I. I’m not Ector, but I let him dream.