Platinum locks reflecting the rays of the mighty Sun, An army of unfortunates kneels down just to admire. There she stands after all the burning has been done, A new-born Mother of three winged-sons fresh out of the pyre.
Brick by brick, Pane by pane, Built a castle, In my name. Drops in Mud, Cut in halves, Filled the river, With their Blood. Men who reason, Put to advise. Men for treason, Head on spike. Reign and roam, On the Throne. Ripped their home, The usurper's crone. One strike, fail. [...]
The Fat King's a funny man; whines, dines and snores, Queen's in distress, as he goes hunting for boars. Princes' charming and a little miss, Poor Old King, none of them is his. Fat King's a silly man for keeping lions in closed doors.