Write a 20 word (or less) story about how a narcissistic con man tried to be a king and failed.
Melting ICE
Blackbirds flock together in a poisonous cop -shaped cloud but fly apart at the first sign of a leaf blower
Polite Boos and Elbows Out Along the Northern Border
We skate over. Poke-check him in his sweaty bloated tariffs. His crooked crown slides off on our 51st attempt. Score!
Stalemate
Pawns, rooks, bishops captured, the knights blunder before the naked king and queen in their castle, pondering their next move.
We Live To Tread On The Waves Of History
When the tide is high, he rises, the aspiring king, but we ride the waves and, again, we drown him.
SIR ( shit in rump)) TACO (tRump Always Chickens Out)
He thought he was knighted, but a deadly fart exposed his soiled underwear during his Birthday Parade.
Predator Pee: Americas Weirdest Export
Forget gasoline, pharmaceuticals and aircraft parts: celebrate our monopoly on wolf urine and keep pesky deer off the world’s streets.
Tick Tock
Fret not while he golfs and preens, even kills, Ozymandias is not just from Breaking Bad, time is still undefeated.
Some King
Solomon thought he was Panga’s smartest man. He claimed to be next in line for king. We all knew better.
The Wannabe King Loves a Parade
March of boots. Tanks. Swoops. 21-gun salutes. He imagines fans in empty stands. Adjusts his fake crown with tiny hands.
Before He Leaves, Charles Requests a Second Shirt
January cold. He will shiver on the scaffold. And divinity is fearless. The crowds may think that he is scared.
“After 75 years, the Orange King Still Can’t Pass Kindergarten”
He wails, “No fair! I’m king!” But the 5-year-olds in his class are unimpressed, refuse to play with him anymore.
Tiny Hands
I tried to grasp a country in my fist, but my hand was much too slimy, dripping sewage from my past.
Tanks for the Memory
So many tanks, their mighty rumbling. Years later, seated on his golden throne, he will remember this failure especially.
A Drivel, A Drovel, Sifting Without a Shovel
When waffling, the iron is a bludgeon, sending drivels of ill repute forward. Without insight, checkmate occurs tarnishing the clown.
In the Days Of Yore Medieval Tournament and Banquet Hall
The jester proclaimed himself king.
“They can’t dine on jokes,” said the stable-boy, galloping out, gnawing the last turkey leg.
AND THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS
He crowned himself via lies; the truth was pricked however when his real mother came forward, resulting in his beheading.
Melting ICE
Blackbirds flock together in a poisonous cop -shaped cloud but fly apart at the first sign of a leaf blower
Polite Boos and Elbows Out Along the Northern Border
We skate over. Poke-check him in his sweaty bloated tariffs. His crooked crown slides off on our 51st attempt. Score!
Stalemate
Pawns, rooks, bishops captured, the knights blunder before the naked king and queen in their castle, pondering their next move.
We Live To Tread On The Waves Of History
When the tide is high, he rises, the aspiring king, but we ride the waves and, again, we drown him.
SIR ( shit in rump)) TACO (tRump Always Chickens Out)
He thought he was knighted, but a deadly fart exposed his soiled underwear during his Birthday Parade.
Predator Pee: Americas Weirdest Export
Forget gasoline, pharmaceuticals and aircraft parts: celebrate our monopoly on wolf urine and keep pesky deer off the world’s streets.
Tick Tock
Fret not while he golfs and preens, even kills, Ozymandias is not just from Breaking Bad, time is still undefeated.
Some King
Solomon thought he was Panga’s smartest man. He claimed to be next in line for king. We all knew better.
The Wannabe King Loves a Parade
March of boots. Tanks. Swoops. 21-gun salutes. He imagines fans in empty stands. Adjusts his fake crown with tiny hands.
Before He Leaves, Charles Requests a Second Shirt
January cold. He will shiver on the scaffold. And divinity is fearless. The crowds may think that he is scared.
“After 75 years, the Orange King Still Can’t Pass Kindergarten”
He wails, “No fair! I’m king!” But the 5-year-olds in his class are unimpressed, refuse to play with him anymore.
Tiny Hands
I tried to grasp a country in my fist, but my hand was much too slimy, dripping sewage from my past.
Tanks for the Memory
So many tanks, their mighty rumbling. Years later, seated on his golden throne, he will remember this failure especially.
A Drivel, A Drovel, Sifting Without a Shovel
When waffling, the iron is a bludgeon, sending drivels of ill repute forward. Without insight, checkmate occurs tarnishing the clown.
In the Days Of Yore Medieval Tournament and Banquet Hall
The jester proclaimed himself king.
“They can’t dine on jokes,” said the stable-boy, galloping out, gnawing the last turkey leg.
AND THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS
He crowned himself via lies; the truth was pricked however when his real mother came forward, resulting in his beheading.