The Pale
King
A pale king on a broken throne,
Devoid of flesh and made of bone,
Hollow eyes to match his soul,
Persevering through the devil’s toll.
A hall decked with bloody garments,
Ornament skulls ,
And red stained carpets.
As he sings his dreadful lull,
He makes you his target.
Sword at his side,
Shield in his hand,
Dead while alive,
Heart made of sand.
Sand that crumbles at the touch,
And blows away at slightest breath,
Yet the pale king needs no crutch,
To hold himself against the test.
He leads an army of undead,
At his word off with your head,
Nothing to stop them from desecration,
Nothing to stop destruction of our nation.
The pale king leads across the plains,
A bloody fountain,
Remains untamed,
As he leads across the mountain,
Nobody else will be proclaimed.
Hell is rained upon our heads,
Brought upon us by the dead,
The dead don’t speak and they don’t breathe,
Yet the dead come through to me.
A deal with the devil written in sin,
Brought upon from within,
A deal to destroy all of man,
A day to ravage all the land.
The damned unknown,
Attack for the king.
They usurp the throne,
And let pain ring.
Nothing is left,
For the morrow.
And up they heft,
The king of sorrow.
And up from the ashes,
A hero is raised.
Built out of matches,
To go up in a blaze.
Trial by fire,
Trial by ice.
They fight on the spire,
The spire of mice.
As the king’s sword is drawn,
And the hero’s is raised,
They fight to the dawn,
And into a new day.
Then the king is knocked down,
The hero has won.
The trumpets will sound,
To the beat of the drum.
And so the pale king,
Destroyed by battle,
Will no longer sing,
His ghostly prattle.
