A Small Outpost in the Darkest Jungle

I was a material witness at a jury trial
For the Amazon king of bebop typesetting.
My first question: was it to be a hung
Jury? And the judge swore himself
Out of his robe and boxed my ears
And sent them back to America,
For which our tribal paradise was modeled.
We had everything, a little post office
For dead letters and convicted operators,
We had the same shores and winds,
We had a centralized sewer system,
Although it should be noted that we
Had to mouth-prime ours unlike
Our Yankee doppelgangers who had
Slaves to prime them (machines, yes,
But very aware of their mechanical conscription),
And the finest bread-in-a-can since
Sliced bread-in-an-ampoule and all the rest.
It was a system designed to impart
Fairness upon ticket holders who
Showed up at the event and whose names
Were selected; pity the king was getting his,
Since he was well liked and sat very
Erectly behind his little polycarbonate shroud.
Now things were starting and the typing
Of the mistress of the court could be heard
As she resigned all day in eloquent letters
Addressed dear sir or madman condemned
Etc and so on, and I was being called
Upon to attest to the king’s bebop typesetting,
Of which I could say his adventures into
Bursts of keystrokes and his melodious
Frame setting had resulted in increased
Output to the royal server which the American’s
Told us was nothing more than a grandfather
Clock ticking out the heartbeats of a corresponding
Grandfather in Ohio whose love of radishes
Had taken him halfway across the world
(But never here, thankfully, where they are turnips instead).