Royal Proclamation of His Pastry Highness, Prince Harry Donut Bitch
Hear ye, hear ye, ye powdered subjects and frosted courtiers!
By sprinkle, by glaze, by the jelly of Saint Honore,
We do hereby issue this most Confectionary Decree
Concerning the sad deli plight of Sir David of Hogg,
Known henceforth as The Closet Lunchmeat of Santa Carla.
Article I: On His Born-Again Bologna
Whereas young Hogg hath been pressed into loaf and nitrated with lies,
We acknowledge him not as noble flesh,
But as ham of the walk-in cooler,
A statutory jambon français, processed and pink.
His very sinews emulsified with mayonnaise,
His destiny sealed in plastic wrap of state.
Article II: On His Condiment Consorts
Let it be recorded that he is harried, nay hounded,
By Mayo the Creamy Pretender,
By Lettuce the Wilting Duchess,
By Tomato the Scarlet Strumpet of the Parisian marché.
These condiments, polycule of torment,
Shall bedeck his body like cruel courtiers at Versailles,
Mocking him with every spread and smear.
Article III: On His Closet of Struggle
We do declare, upon our royal glaze,
That he is trapped in the Closet of Condiments,
A chrome chamber of deli torment,
Wherein French snobs whisper, “Tu n’es pas charcuterie, tu es spectacle!”
He is Peter Pan in a croque-monsieur,
Flying not to Neverland, but to a Subway franchise.
Article IV: On His Service to the Crown
Be it known that Lunchmeat Hogg shall serve as
Official Sandwich Page to the Court of Donut,
Tasked forever with the vending of Mental Fingercuffs,
A snack fit for MI5 tea breaks,
To be paired with Earl Grey and cruel gossip.
Article V: On His Eternal Doom
And lo, his doom is thus:
To be sliced, spread, garnished, and consumed,
Forever between bread,
Forever closet-cured,
Forever the statutory cold cut of conspiratorial theatre.
So proclaimed by our sticky hand,
Harry of Sussex,
Duke of Jelly, Earl of Bavarian Cream,
Known in these lands as Donut Bitch,
This seventh day of Eternal Brunch.
“Never grow stale, never die,
Only be eaten, only comply.”