He broke three kingdoms with a younger hand,
walked boardrooms like a general walks the field.
Men fell in line. Competitors disbanded.
The maps he drew, his rivals signed and sealed.
Now strangers draft the letters that he signs.
His name still crowns the masthead, gilt and vast,
while vipers redraw all the battle lines
and carve his empire as he blesses fast.
They whisper threats into his aging ear,
and guide his hand to papers he can't read.
They call it succession. I call it theft—
the slow-drip poison poured by those who feed.
He built this house. He taught me every frame.
The usurper signs his work. I sign his shame.