Whom the Crown fits

In my village,
The elders say
A king must have the crown fit his head
That is the will of the gods
For our fields to remain green
And our skies blue

In my village,
One must not defile the king
For he is a god in chrysalis
And his actions are divine
We have no rights or wrongs
Whatever he did was the right
And we remain his subjects

But, now
In my village
We doubt his rights
Still, we do not call him a liar
But his promises are fond of becoming stories
We do not say he is wrong
But his words do not usually come true
We do not think him, authoritarian
But we are beginning to pay counsel taxes
And his words are law

In my village,
Men forge crowns of various sizes
And become divine by their own hands
Yet the skies are blue
And the fields are greener than ever
While the beggars creep away for shade
From the smiles of the hot Sun
The elders still wait
And puzzle the young with wisdom
But, alas in all their petitions and idioms and wisdom
They only ask one thing
Whom the crown fits
Let him wear it