English Play mockup Bastard 英語プレイの真似事 バスタード

Thus the Bastard Son states, before his 
affrighted father, as with ease and leisure, he lordly paces around him, as if examining a wounded animal; the flower-corpses of honour-guards and landed-knights blooming in a lake of burning red diamond.
The King, he who was struck dumbfounded and all his bodily motions thwarted, stands now in non-action, can do nothing but looking before the Prince's shadow lengthening and shortening as the waxed candle's flame dances, and upon the walls is the light waning of the palatial stage.
With a menacingly cold, glistening
dagger softly pressed in his gloved-hand, and a lazy glance
past his bastard father's shoulder,
fancying whether if there is a hanging thread attached, from a haloed manipulator-spider,
and then at the blank and void, empty
Sky, the Prince monologues to himself, with a bit scorn and ridicule,
self-deserving,
an Irish bull:
"Father, of course I recognize,
that your birthing me through an undeservingly paid-wife
a grave error by its own doing.
And rightly you fear the throne for
thy more worthier heir, but I am not a daredevil high road robber.
Fear not, I am an Embodiment, a soothing thing
to fix that immortal error for the realm,
with an easy and mortal solution,
so to do that which error through or by thee
owing to or against thy best judgement, and 
moral prowess,
extricating the tangled Fate's fangs, so let it all did undid,
and cure itself of its many diseases…so enacting medicine,
I am but a bitter pill to swallow;
King's health to thee, sirrah!"
and then the dagger was plunged into the bastard Father's chest,
at the moment of Red Death,
usurped by his unmasked bastard Son.
from the wound, as all sounding music stops
the blood coursing faster than time does,
laughed and leaped a bit too high,
though within the margin of error, 20 cm or so.
upon the King's immaculately silky and white sleep-vest,
a red blooming, penetrated paradise.
While the children of paradise, below
folk born common or noble of each their own station,
stare at the wonder upon the stage above them in powerless incomprehension…
as within the royal Gazebo
by a leprous, blind and ugly 
unmanly Prince, limping
the King, in His own vine- and flower-scented secret garden,
with young and beautiful concubines and slave-wives
amid the singing praises of joyful summer-birds and music
was slain, the most just and righteous
the one who was intemperately merciful, a Dracon
to whom they did willingly prostrate, with their forehead
touching the ground,
The King is dead,
their once one and only Mighty, of their small, landed country,
Earth's bread-warden,
Lord.