The noble king it’s said does sing
Of all his people starving.
And when he drinks the finest wine
He blesses the poor who are crying.
The women who love him serve him meat
And wash his feet with lather.
And when they are done
He kisses their cheek
And tells them “I shall give you a son.”
But whoa--the tides, the clouds, the storm.
Something to the West is rising.
Grab your sword and rise from your throne
And make ready for battle and riding.
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