The Last Applause of the Grave Clown

Beneath a moonless vault of dreadful delight, I penned this account
Of a republic of fools who crowned a jester with a crooked crown.
The nobles praised his grand display, for he sold them empty triumphs
And charged each soul a fee for sorrow, calling misery a gift.

All shall applaud the grave clown.

The jester then unveiled his marvels: a throne of hollow promises,
A feast of phantom riches, and a choir of flattering fools.
The crowd adored his tricks, since every citizen desired a lie
That wore a noble mask and mocked the truth from dawn till dusk.
I laughed from my shadowed chamber, for the jest had grown profound:
The ruler they adored had been their own reflection all along.

All shall applaud the grave clown.

Soon the kingdom sank beneath its appetite for grand illusions.
The jester vanished, leaving scribes to praise his empty reign.
They carved his sayings upon halls and sold the crumbs of his legend,
While merchants of misery danced with delight beside the ruins.
The people finally saw the joke, though the joke had consumed them.
Their applause became a funeral hymn for their cherished foolishness.

All shall applaud the grave clown.

Thus ends my tale of a realm where vanity wore a crown,
Where laughter served as a dagger wrapped in a fool's attire.
The jester's shadow remains, smiling at every boastful tyrant,
For mankind forever builds altars to those who deceive.
Yet the final jest belongs to the grave clown himself:
He gained a kingdom by teaching all souls to cheer their own defeat.