“I’ve lost my crown,” he cries, forlorn,
His gears, they spin and whir.
He stomps and pouts and spins about,
His servos click and purr.
“I left it here,” he does declare,
“Beside the oil can.”
The workbench offers insight not,
Nor does the working man.
If only found the clockwork crown,
Without it, he is not
A prince, a king, a goodly thing,
Just a lonely, rusted bot.
“Set upon by thieves, no doubt,”
Mutters he with tearful angst.
Or so he would, if cry he could,
To mourn his loss of rank.
And then it’s found, upon the ground,
Where careless hand has cast.
But long the trauma has endured,
His sad features now stuck fast.
“Where is the oil can?” he cries,
His memory banks, they falter.
“I left her here, beside my crown,
Some other hand has got her.”
And so, alone and most ignored,
He searches high and low.
A crown doth have the Clockwork Prince,
His face sad, even so.