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In the land where shadows curl and cling, There rots the throne of the Turd King. Crowned with flies, his scepter a bone, He rules over refuse, decay, and stone. Once a man of golden pride, Now the stench of ruin is his bride. With every step the soil weeps brown, A monarch draped in a rancid gown. He whispers to worms, commands the rats, A kingdom built on filth and fats. Yet in his eyes—a flicker, a gleam— Of a soul long lost to a fetid dream. So tread with care where the gutters sing, Lest you kneel before the Turd King.