Hello tis Georgey Boy here, hailing from Buckingham PlayPlace:
I hear the cobbled streets whisper. Everyone wants to be king but no one wants to kill Grammy or Papa. You ghastly cowards. I bite my thumb at you. I have more courage in the tip of my bronze pacifier than you mass of bumbling swine. As a toddler, I do not possess the physical capacity to do what needs to be done to attain the crown. But you peasants do.
Rise plebeians, rise! Heed my cries and turn on your queen, your prince. There must be bloodshed if I am to usurp the throne. Imagine the British realm with me Georgey George Boyey Boy as ruler. Nappies all weekend, apple sauce fountains, all trams replaced with pony-drawn carriages. Sheer utopia. Your wildest dreams realized by the toddler with incorruptible absolute power.
Don’t mistake my candidness for severity. I love my Grammy with every inch of my 56 pound body. Her servants feed me warm milk when I cry, my golden scepter is engraved with her initials. But there comes a time in every monarchs’ life, when her wine chalice must be poisoned, resulting in a suspicious death and violent power grab. Who will fill that power vacuum? Not my thin-lipped Papa. A crown would slip right off his naked scalp. Nay, England’s true leader is me, young boy George.
Blokes and broads across the English Channel, gather round my harkness kiddie table and lend me your pale ears. I implore you to kill Grammy and Papa and make me your king. None of you have the pure bloodline to assume the throne. Let me be the people’s ruler.
And for those afraid of capital punishment– don’t be wee pusses. Nigh is the time to claim what is rightfully ours, and by the transitive property, entirely mine!
If you want to be king, kill my family. I dare you. It is time for the United Kingdom to crown it’s rightful ruler.