The Lord of Fools wears a crown made of broken mirrors, each shard reflecting the faces of those who giggled to begin with and addressed never. He sits on a position of authority of incongruity, hung in robes sewed from errors, rumors, and half-truths told as well frequently. This lord was never implied to run the show, however by one means or another he climbed—no, stumbled—his way to control, cheered on by a swarm who mixed up commotion for shrewdness and exhibition for quality.
In his court, jokesters bow moo, not out of regard but since they see their reflection in him. He is them magnified—louder, bolder, and unafraid of result. He talks in conundrums, moves through inconsistencies, and grins through chaos, for perplexity is his kingdom and joke his song of devotion. And still, they cheer. Not since they accept, but since conviction is tiring, and giggling is simple.
But underneath the chimes and painted grin, maybe indeed the Ruler of Fools ponders in the event that the joke has gone as well distant. In the event that perhaps, fair perhaps, the crown is heavier than anticipated. Perhaps the trick was as it were implied to joke, not judge. Possibly the ones who lifted him up did so as it were to observe him drop harder. And however, he rules. For in a world where truth is bent and clowns are delegated, the Lord of Fools isn't the exception—he is the reflect.