He was born with a silver tongue that doesn’t belong to him, so in turn, he’s never surprised when his mouth is filled with things he will never sing or say, because they taste more natural than his own thoughts.
His mouth is filled with songs of praise for the praiseworthy, even if it means the situation isn’t going his way. He may be powerful, but he knows the truth in the irony that the right to control everything was never his to control.
He speaks of righteous deeds, when none can be seen, but many can be found. They form a pattern like the starry hosts of the night, too beautiful to be mere coincidence yet no blueprint to be proved in their design. They just are, and stay true to themselves.
He can talk until his hair turns grey, and still there wouldn’t be enough time to say everything that’s born inside. It doesn’t stop him, though, and so when the time has come for him to be silent, he knows there will always be someone there to speak all those words that were not and never will be his own.