In which we see The Prince and The Maid (in disguise as a German Baroness) enter the court and begin their charade.

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Let me introduce the cast, The King,
Our prince’s father, bearing royal ring,
And taking kisses thereupon its gem,
Was, though born worthy of his diadem,
A brute whose love of wine was but the taste
Of habits meant to better talents waste.
Beside him stood The Steward, tall and wise
Who with no japes would ever sympathise;
A perfect foil for his wayward master
Lest by neglect the kingdom edge disaster.
The Fool sat at their feet in bold attire,
Whose endless jests his king had yet to tire,
Puffing his chest to higher births usurp
Then simulating bursting with a burp.
Behind them, in a place the light forsook
Stood one, neglected, scribbl’ng in his book.
This one was I, The Poet, pleased at last
To meet the reader here among this cast.
The last of note was one we’ve met already,
The Cup-Bearer who served the liquor heady.
‘Twas he who brought the knowledge of the theft
Of wine unto his sire, with words spun deft.
The stage is set for our young lovers, thus,
Without another moment’s worthless fuss,
They walk toward the throne to meet The King.
The Fool at sight of them began to sing,
“Like portraits of the sun and moon in flight
Soaring e’er higher than each celestial kite
These children nonetheless fall back to Earth
Unable to escape his orbit’s girth.”
Th’ last line was mimed with reference to his sire,
‘Fore flourishing a chord upon his lyre.
The Steward took no notice and addressed
The Prince, “Who comes with thee so finely dressed?
This lady is not known within the court.”
“Before you is a Baroness who’s sought
This foreign land as refuge from a war
Engulfing all their land within its maw,”
Thus said The Prince before The Fool cut in,
“O war! The very beacon for man’s sin
Where fathers risk their sons to try and win
A game I think is better played at court
Where battles made of wit not sword are fought
And our grand king: wittiest this side of France
Overdrinks to give the competition chance.”
“Too right!” The King hiccupped, “But what is she
To thee, my son? A pretty lass I see
And gladly would I have her kiss my hand,
In fact, this privilege soon I will demand,
Along with her name, of family and of land.”
The prince breathed deep and set his tongue to waltz,
“Her name is Gertrude von Bergig-Schmaltz-
Winzig-Schweige-Schwätzer-Hiffon-Hoffel-
Das-Fingerlecken-Köstlich-Kartoffel-
Widdergespann-Einen-Schwefelkluft-
Grasbüschel-Anzeigen-Versorgungsluft,
Hailing from Schwarzburg-Sondershausen, my liege.”
The Fool applauded ready to besiege
His audience with th' name recited backward,
But could not speak before the wily Steward,
“I know the place, yet not the name, alas,
My German tongue is cultured not and crass,
(Yet odd, so odd that name) but all may come.
So step yeh forth to kiss...” “His royal bum!”
The Fool could not help blurting, knowing well
He’d overstepped his station, yet it fell
As humour on The King whose laugh rang out
Echoing through the hall until a bout
Of coughing struck him dumb. The Steward chided,
“My King, we have a guest so be not guided
Toward such follies by this childish stray.”
The King through wheezing waved them both away
“Fine, fine. Go, Fool. Leave now for duty’s sake.”
And so with head ashamed and sniffles fake
The Fool came o’er to me to trouble make.
Yet, ‘fore we come to that we should return
To She who would be kissing hands in turn.
The Prince went first and did his father proud
Then She went next with grace and not a sound.
The Cup-Bearer, so closely could he gaze,
Did notice, as their hands met th’ King’s to raise
It up toward their lips a red-raw rash
Across their knuckles both; an Ivy’s lash
He was most certain. Also did he muse,
For keen was he to gather gossy clues,
That Ivy only grew beside the stable.
Alas, this smallest detail will enable
Fate to derail happiness’ train
And turn this tale of joy to one of pain.