Turncoat

What
Was
Your
Intent,
Prince
Petulant,
To
Pinch
The
Antique
Crown
And
Make
It
Wince?
Air
Your
Petty
Grievance
As
If
The
World
Should
Care?
Every
Family
Is
A
Bag
Of
Bent
Nails,
But
Build
We
Must,
Or
Turn
Our
Humble
Glories
To
Dust.
Your
Kinsmen
Drew
Their
Lot
And
Serve,
But
You
Would
Not.
Pouty
And
Small,
You
Quit
It
All.
The
Rest
Remain
Profoundly
Prison
Bound,
From
Which
There
Is
No
Key.
Self
Defined,
You
Only
Think
You’re
Free.
Wait
And
See.