The Lion King

In the golden hush of the Serengeti’s sweep,
where the veldt sighs beneath a blaze of noon,
a drumbeat rises—an ancestral heartbeat,
the wind‑woven song of a lion’s boon.

Simba, once a cub next to his father’s mane,
learns that power is not a crown but a chain—
a burden of honour, a duty to remain,
beneath the great sky’s own steady reign.

Mufasa’s roar, the thunder that echoes past,
whispers through the baobab’s leaf‑shaped frame,
“Remember, child, the circle will not break—
the light you hold can mend the dark of your name.”

Scar, sly, with a sly smirk and a silver tongue,
plots to twist beneath the golden suns,
believing in what he does—what he’s undone—
and stirs the stasis, the very bus‑ker’s fun.

The hyena’s laugh is a murmur of meadow air,
but the lion’s saga, bold and raw,
tells of pride and of those who dare—
the grass itself bows, any time or frost.

Nala, fierce and gentle, stands beside the ridge,
her spirit fierce, her courage swaddled tight,
hence they break the darkness, now she does its bridge,
for they must all give back the fading light.

Rafiki’s counsel comes in wisdom’s splat,
of elephants, of nuts, of the sun’s true heat—
“In every goddess, every human where we bat,
the true king is a robin’s star—an honest feat.”

As dusk erupts in scarlet blaze, the battle stands,
the echo of claws, a song of the fallen’s wind,
and when life falls softly to the gamma land,
Simba walks the weald, his heart defined.

No longer a boy, his roar becomes the sky’s hymn,
the Langley of hearts under the pastoral rim,
he resets the barbed line, gently so,
the rightful court of the circle, a trium.

This is the lore of the Royal Lorry,
a story told in script of nature’s lore—
a British heart beating on the savannah’s scurry,
of Santa’s love in every roaming roar.