The Sorry King

In a city built of sorrow,

On a worn and withered throne,

The sorry King is silent-

It cuts me to the bone.

The mighty all have fallen,

Those dear to me have died,

And though I dare not show it,

I'm crying deep inside.

The words of deceit mingle

With the mongrel hounds at bay,

And though I should not heed them,

There's truth in what they say.

What is my home now but a barn

For swine and snakes alike,

Where none can see the Serpent's hold,

But all can feel its bite?

The axes and the blades have dulled,

The shields have lost their shine,

While we wait upon the wicked,

And shake-hands with the swine.

Our hopes we all have squandered,

Upon a dotard king,

And though others hum old glory's songs,

I'm not inclined to sing.