Clay King was once a little boy, and he would often cry for milk and sleep and wooden rattles and a soothing lullaby Now he is a strong young man and still we see him cry! Poor heart is broken Weak mind is weary He simply wants to DIE Cyrus’s eyes flew open. His fists had clenched, unbidden, but there was no one to fight; nothing to see. “Did you bring me here to mock me?” he said quietly, turning about the room. “What is it you want tonight?” Oh, the jester is a lonely sort who seldom gets to play despite the jokes he loves to make of witless, greedy Clay
