Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
So he just died. He lay there, on the cobblestones, in a pool of his own yolk, baking sunny-side up in the oppressive heat of the afternoon sun. (I have it on good authority it was at least 97 degrees Fahrenheit that day. Do you have any idea how hot cobblestones can get in that kind of heat, in direct sunlight?)
|And -- who is this girl --|
some cutesy little assassin? The plot thickens.
I'm sure the royal breakfast was served that day. And there, I am doubly sure, the king sat, consuming the very folk most in need of his help: the egg community. Poor Humpty's soul was running into the cracks of the street while the stuffed shirt of a king was smiling and wrapping the royal lips around one of the cracked creature's terrified, hard-boiled cousins...
But that is neither here nor there. The real question is: Who does the king send? Okay, his "men." I vigorously question whether it was, indeed, all of them, but I have no proof. It just seems unlikely. And God forbid the royal feet should inconvenience themselves by actually waddling over to he scene of the "accident..." (See picture at right.)
We'll pretend that we think that a single bloke among these "men" knew anything whatsoever about egg anatomy. But who else does he send? THE HORSES!? They don't even have fingers. How in the world are they supposed to contribute, even infinitesimally, to putting Humpty back together again?
It's a farce, and we have been silent long enough. We have been force-fed the image of a benevolent king since our cradle days when this anti-eggist agenda has been flourishing.
Does the king care? Is he the least bit invested in the aid he sends to his poor, suffering citizens? Well, not when it comes to the egg community, I can tell you that. I'm sure the Lord of the Realm had a nice chortle in the sun-lit feasting hall that morning, jesting with his poncy little lords about those pathetic, well-meaning horses frantically trying to piece together the broken body of Humpty without the benefit of opposable thumbs, or, for that matter, without phalanges of any kind.
Rest in pieces, Humpty, because that is all this cold world and its chill-hearted tyrants would allow you.