oh my, yes. I oh so wanted to see a tuxedo, penguin crisp, satin shiny, pseudo-sparkle when he sauntered by us peons, clinging to such rags as misfortune left in her cloud of dust and tears. Coughing.
but, oh my no. no. Clad there not in finery, but in the simplest of suits. Birthday I am told the style. Flattered, but not flattering. Scoffing, not coughing.
And in seeing I could not unsee, despite I swear so wanting, you must believe, Nor in knowing could I unknow what what wisdom bears in its stoop and beard the penultimate emptiness of every emperor, penguin or man.
It’s delightful, this delusion of guardian garments. I’ll just close my eyes.