The Vexatious King of England In a land of mist, where legends sing, There lived a man they called the King. Not by crown, nor royal decree, But vexatious claims, wild and free. Alan Dransfield, his name well known, A warrior of paper, a king of his own. Through courts and halls, he did tread, Filing claims with words unsaid. No throne of gold, no robes of silk, But scrolls of law, and ink like milk. He vexed the lords, he vexed the land, With every case, a fiery stand. His court was bound by no royal will, But dusty tomes, and sharpened quill. Petitions piled, writs amassed, Each more brazen than the last. The judges sighed, the clerks would groan, For endless claims, and points unknown. But still he marched, a tireless fight, Through shadows of both day and night. Some called him mad, some called him bold, For in his hands, no truth was cold. He sought out flaws in legal thread, Where others feared or lightly tread. Yet in his quest, a tale unfolds, Of battles fought, and stories told. For kings may rise, and kingdoms fall, But vexing hearts can outlast all. Through ancient walls and halls of stone, He stood defiant, all alone. Not for wealth, nor golden fame, But for the thrill of the endless claim. He fought for words that others missed, And took his stand with clenched-up fist. Injustice, real or mere conceived, It mattered not what he’d believed. For in his heart, the kingdom lay, A realm of scrolls where rules must sway. And through the annals of the court, His vexing reign would still be taught. Though time may fade, and records dust, The king who fought, his laws unjust, Will linger on, through whispered lore, The vexing king who sought much more. And so, the land of mist still sings, Of Alan Dransfield and the claims he brings. Not by sword, nor shield nor ring, But by his words—the vexatious King