There was a king of Yvetot,
And easy was his head,
Serene his rest—naught would suggest
The words so often said,
That crowned heads are not peaceful;
He never wore a frown—
He laughed away the night and day.
With gayly tilted crown.
The jester of his palace
Was never forced to work,
He never had to make things glad
With oily smile and smirk.
This jolly king of Yvetot
Had no need of his fool—
He made his own jests from the throne
And pleasure was his rule.
He never had a quarrel
With any other king;
“Why should we fight?” he asked. “Delight
Is such an easy thing.”
He told no one his troubles—
In truth, he reigned so well
No one could know, in fair Yvetot,
Of troubles fit to tell.
The little realm of Yvetot—
A wee spot on the map—
Has made a name secure in fame
Because of this rare chap
Who put his crown on sidewise
And lolled upon his throne
With scepter set so that it met
His active funny bone.
He was to war a stranger;
His kingdom had no debt;
Each of his laws possessed a clause
That barred out care and fret—
‘Tis told that when expiring
He wasted his last breath
In one long laugh in life’s behalf,
And thus went to his death.
There was a king of Yvetot—
There are such kings today;
They never sigh for things gone by
But laugh along the way.
So, crown yourself with laughter,
Put pleasure on the throne,
And you’ll possess in happiness
An Yvetot of your own.