King Bor­ria Bun­galee Boo reigned over his king­dom with more appetite than wis­dom, rul­ing not with jus­tice or diplo­ma­cy, but with an end­less crav­ing that kept his sub­jects uneasy. His court had once been filled with noble­men and ser­vants, but over time, that num­ber dwindled—not by rebel­lion or dis­ease, but by diges­tion. Only four sub­jects remained by the time hunger over­took him ful­ly, each marked by their per­son­al­i­ty and their fear of being next on the menu. Among them, Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah flaunt­ed self-impor­tance, Doo­dle-Dum-Dey lum­bered with clue­less cheer, Alack-a-Dey-Ah wal­lowed in grief, and lit­tle Too­tle-Tum-Teh sparkled with bright ideas and loy­al­ty. The king, despite his mon­strous rep­u­ta­tion, was­n’t evil in the usu­al sense; he was sim­ply a pris­on­er of his hunger. And with noth­ing but his own men left to con­sume, des­per­a­tion replaced cer­e­mo­ny, and deci­sions became grim. That day, din­ner wasn’t planned—it was feared. Some­thing had to be done before the king’s gaze turned fatal.

In this bizarre cri­sis, Too­tle-Tum-Teh proved him­self more than just a charm­ing name. With the wis­dom of some­one unwill­ing to be eat­en, he offered a bold alternative—an attack on Queen Tip­py-Wip­pi­ty Tol-the-Rol-Loo’s domain. The idea, while out­ra­geous, was met with cau­tious opti­mism. Bet­ter to risk the dan­gers of an exter­nal con­quest than suf­fer an inter­nal col­lapse. The Queen’s state, peace­ful and pros­per­ous, seemed ripe for an unin­vit­ed feast, and her four Ama­zons, described with strange culi­nary admi­ra­tion, were seen as the answer to King Boo’s relent­less appetite. Plans formed quick­ly, not from strate­gic bril­liance, but from neces­si­ty fueled by hunger. Each sub­ject, aware of what inac­tion could bring, sup­port­ed the plan with­out delay. They would rather face a queen and her guards than be served in a stew. It was both cow­ard­ly and brave—a sur­vival instinct dressed in the illu­sion of mil­i­tary action.

Their jour­ney to Queen Loo’s land was filled with the kind of absur­di­ty that only hunger and des­per­a­tion could pro­duce. March­ing with­out prop­er equip­ment, armed with kitchen cut­lery and trib­al brava­do, the king and his com­pan­ions didn’t look like warriors—they looked like din­ner guests who’d mis­tak­en them­selves for an army. Still, the mood shift­ed. What began as a far­ci­cal escape from can­ni­bal­ism became a strange adven­ture filled with rhythm, chants, and bizarre hero­ism. Too­tle-Tum-Teh led with hope, not expe­ri­ence, and some­how that made the dif­fer­ence. The oth­ers fol­lowed, if not out of faith, then at least out of fear. At every step, their jour­ney danced between com­e­dy and calami­ty, a satire of con­quest per­formed by men more suit­ed to serv­ing dish­es than bat­tle­field glo­ry.

But the Queen was not with­out her defens­es. Tip­py-Wip­pi­ty Tol-the-Rol-Loo, unlike King Boo, ruled with a sharp mind and steady lead­er­ship, and her Ama­zons were any­thing but dain­ty. When the invad­ing par­ty arrived, they were met not with alarm but with laughter—at their names, their weapons, and their very premise. Still, kind­ness ruled her response. Rather than retal­i­ate or imprison them, she offered hos­pi­tal­i­ty, mis­tak­ing their awk­ward approach for cul­tur­al odd­i­ty rather than a failed inva­sion. Meals were shared—not of peo­ple, but of prop­er food—and King Boo, faced with gen­eros­i­ty instead of resis­tance, expe­ri­enced some­thing rare: con­tent­ment. For once, he wasn’t plot­ting con­sump­tion. He was chew­ing thought­ful­ly, bel­ly full, tem­per cooled.

Too­tle-Tum-Teh’s plan had worked, though not in the way any­one expect­ed. The con­quest became a com­mu­nion, and the hunger that once devoured diplo­ma­cy gave way to peace born from prop­er nour­ish­ment. The Queen’s hos­pi­tal­i­ty rewrote the tale’s tra­jec­to­ry. She fed the king and his men not because they deserved it, but because kind­ness often achieves what force can­not. This twist gave the bal­lad its true pow­er: a les­son wrapped in laugh­ter, show­ing that com­pas­sion can dis­arm even the most dan­ger­ous appetites. And so, instead of war or tragedy, the sto­ry end­ed in an unex­pect­ed alliance. Queen Loo kept her land, and King Boo, it seemed, had final­ly found some­thing bet­ter than eat­ing his own advi­sors.

The bal­lad, though play­ful and filled with non­sense names, car­ries real insight beneath its rhyme. It offers a clever cri­tique of lead­ers dri­ven by per­son­al need at the expense of oth­ers, and the absurd lengths peo­ple go to pre­serve them­selves under flawed rulers. Through exag­ger­a­tion, it shows how loy­al­ty can be stretched thin, how rea­son often gives way to instinct, and how redemp­tion some­times arrives in the form of an unas­sum­ing meal. The tale’s dark humor masks a brighter truth: even in absur­di­ty, dig­ni­ty can be sal­vaged. And while no one would aspire to be King Bor­ria Bun­galee Boo, every­one can learn from Tootle-Tum-Teh—whose wit, nerve, and sense of decen­cy made sur­vival not just pos­si­ble, but mean­ing­ful.