In a land far away, in a time when a manrode a horse into town, not a car,Lived a wise, aged lord, friend of each whom he ruled,whose great kindness was known near and far. As his days chased their end and his long hair turned pale,there was only one thing the man feared:That the kingdom would next have to live through his son,the spoiled-rotten Prince Bing Brigham Beard. Now this heir wasn't young as some princes might be,He was bald, with thick brows like stone blocksIn fact, when the hair over his eyes was maintainedBarbers claimed they sold it to make socks. With impatience and greed he would hunger each dayFor the crown off his old father's head.Indeed Bing had been waiting a very long time,For the peasants to serve him instead. Thus, not a minute had passed since the wise lord's gravestonereceived one final decorative flower,When the sole living heir, now King Bing Brigham Beardwould begin to abuse his new power. Bing bought clothes, he bought horses, some tiny, some huge,he bought chocolate cream cake from an elf,And despite all the townsfolk, quite hungry and horseless,the King kept it all for himself. He threw parties and dances and sometimes paradesThat would only allow in the rich,And they ate and they drank – making jokes of the poor'Till their belts held by barely one stitch. The King scoffed at the law, threw protesters in jail,As he kept getting older and fatter,In his court, it was said, Bing had only one quote:“Keep me happy, the rest doesn't matter.” Then one day, taking all of their clothes and their jewels,Guards pushed guests out the gates double quick,Among merchants and peasants, the gossipy sort,There were whispers that claimed Beard was sick. Things went calm for a while, so calm some were assuredThat the tyrant really had gone illA conclusion Bing Brigham would finally thwartBy appearing at his windowsill There he issued an order: A gigantic tax raise,as his twelfth anniversary neared,Within weeks seven sixths of all town-produced goodsWould belong to King Bing Brigham Beard. All his subjects were not only sad, but confused,Without pillows or sheets they lost sleep.“What I would like to know,” grumbled Wheat farmer Joe,“Is why Bing wants my pigs cows and sheep?” So the people took torches and pitchforks and bannersand they stormed King Beard's castle and grounds,Finding everything empty, from throneroom to toilet,While outside the halls echoed strange sounds. It was then, through an archway, a young squire spotted,A sight that made everyone gasp,Since it soon became clear where the livestock and gearOf the townsfolk went while in Bing's grasp. He'd constructed a spire at least three miles tall,Though not made of clay-brick or of rock,Piled high were bags, clothing, and even stray pets,Matresses, and a grandfather clock There were half-eaten apples and hay by the bale,There were chickens in cast-iron pots,There were fifty-two flavors of freshly-baked pieHeld together by rope in big knots. Every object in town, whether living or notThat the people could possibly spare,formed a towering needle, atop which Bing BrighamSat smoking his pipe in a chair. “My dear subjects, How are you?” The bearded king yelled“Have you come to watch me steal the sun?It's so beautiful here, where I don't have to hearWhiny sob-stories from everyone.” From the crowd there were quiet mumblings of “What now?”As they tried to decide what to do,It was up to one girl, at just five years of ageTo spot the glove of Gardener Stew. “Daddy!” cried the young girl running up to the moundHe gave her hand a delicate squeeze,Every citizen suddenly noticed the scene,Rushing in to help, swift as the breeze. As they tugged, as they pulled the mound trembled and shook,And before long it finally gave,Returning to safety the father of eight,Whom a little girl's bravery would save. The reunion was short, since from deep in the crowdcame a cry of “Back up, run away!”And for very good reason: With half its base gone,The great junk-pile started to sway. Ropes untied, hooks snapped off as the tower collapsed,Freeing blankets and tables and hogs,For the very first time in the town's historyIt actually rained cats and dogs. And King Bing Brigham Beard? He got what he deserved,All the spectators settled on that,Since his fall, from the tops of the clouds to the earth,Ended in a satysfying splat. So the town was released from twelve years of hard times,Years of taxes and ignorance too,Where the work of five-hundred hands, eight days a weekEnded up only helping out two. So Please, If you want to be liked, listen closely, be fair,In your hard work give every last ounce;Don't use greed; after all King Beard learned the hard way,Unfortunately, people don't bounce.