So, crown the jester in his plight of the laughing widows, merry. Each cackle and haw tears him apart in his fields of poppies. Given him the crown of brambles make a scepter of his bread.
Carry him on to his throne of glory; a sordid pile of the dead. Mock him as he cries in anger laugh at every tear. Chain him to his crown of glory and listen for the jests and jeers