Greetings to his Royal Highness, my King, my father, Papa:

What can I say, from my own almost totally forgotten place in the beyond, to your own eternal existence in faith and culture? What can I add to the scenario in which we seem to be locked for those who do remember, who still bother to read the Bible? What can I add to the detailed story of how my half-brother Amnon raped my full sister Tamar, how I killed him in revenge, my flight to grandpa Talmai, and my return through the good offices of uncle Joab, how you refused to see me until Joab pleaded with you; my rebellion and installation as king, necessitating (according to you) a civil war; your exile, resistance, and final victory, with my demise by Joab when I hung helplessly by my hair on a tree – so that you, you, an old man, could be re-established as the king once more?

This biblical story is generally favourable to you. It describes you as a resigned old man until your counsellors convince you to fight me back, against your own wishes. It foregrounds your presumed love for me, after all, and shifts the blame for my death to Joab.