A sudden rush of Golden Light.
King Midas’ touch — a curse, a blight.
The gifted, gilded, Gallant One,
Spawns another golden sun.
Oak and stone and feasts of Kings —
Gold he turneth everything!
Loathing his infernal prayer,
Begging mercy, hate, despair.
Midas can not free himself
From golden glory — endless Wealth.
Wishes he’d not asked this much.
Despising now the Midas touch!