ChatGPT knows a poem about that.
The Sweaty Nonce and Yang Tengbo
In gilded halls where time stands still,
Lived a prince of no great skill.
A man of sweat, of damp disgrace,
A crimson flush upon his face.
His mind? A sieveāideas slipped through,
Like tea through leaves or morning dew.
They called him āroyal,ā though all he brought,
Was clammy palms and empty thought.
And so it was, on one bleak day,
He wandered far from royal fray.
In search of friends or foolish games,
He stumbled upon
Yang Tengboās name.
Yang Tengbo, smooth, a shadowās friend,
The sort of man who knows
the end.
A spy in silk, with eyes like knives,
Who traded truths for lesser lives.
āYour Highness,ā Yang Tengbo purred,
His words as sharp as whispered birds.
āYou seem unburdened by great wit.
Letās sit and talkāa little bit.ā
The prince, who dripped like kitchen pipes,
Nodded through his foggy stripes.
They sat in corners, dim and gray,
Where secrets slipped like night to day.
And oh, he talkedāhow much he told!
Of scandalous plans and vaults of gold.
Of military posts and shifting tides,
He gave away the countryās sides.
āAnother pint?ā Tengbo would ask,
The prince compliedāan easy task.
For every drink, a bit more leaked,
Until Yang Tengbo had all heād seeked.
At dawn, the prince awoke, alone,
Sweat pooling in his collarbone.
His head was thick, his mind was light,
But something wasnāt quite
alright.
The papers hit the streets at noonā
āA Sweaty Fool, A Nationās Ruin!ā
Yang Tengbo vanished, slick and sly,
While our poor prince could only sigh.
A nonce he was, and nonce he stayed,
His folly sung, his debts unpaid.
A cautionary tale heāll be,
Of sweat, betrayal, and idiocy.
And Yang Tengbo? A ghost, a breeze.
He sailed away with secrets seized.
For fools will sweat, and spies will grin,
At princes who spill like tonic and gin.