Oh what wonders it is to live within the castle gates,
The right hand man to the king.
Doing the work that the King is much to busy for,
Dealing with the people who dare disobey the King.
I bow my head to every noon, morning and evening,
Serving under the crown.
Long live the King!
As out in the center of the kingdom,
It’s a quiet little place.
The guards come round often,
Just to collect the taxes and the criminals.
The people how spread their words are the ones who get taken first.
But it’s nice.
Long live the King.
Out on the far end of the kingdom,
We witness the wars and horrors of the King.
Our brothers and sisters get killed before our every eyes.
The soldiers tax our people more than we can pay,
And steal the food and words straight from our mouths.
And as I write this on the dirt path,
My kin will be next to the silver blade.
Yet the King lives on.
As my feet drag long the cobblestone path,
As the cool metal from the guards freezes my arms,
My head is placed between the two pieces of wood.
As the pull up the blade,
The crowd looks upon me.
And as my voice was about to be silenced,
I decide to speak my last words,
Because maybe my voice didn’t have to die when I did.
“Long live the people who die for freedom.”
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 1:45 PM UTC
Oh what wonders it is to live within the castle gates,
The right hand man to the king.
Doing the work that the King is much to busy for,
Dealing with the people who dare disobey the King.
I bow my head to every noon, morning and evening,
Serving under the crown.
Long live the King!
As out in the center of the kingdom,
It’s a quiet little place.
The guards come round often,
Just to collect the taxes and the criminals.
The people how spread their words are the ones who get taken first.
But it’s nice.
Long live the King.
Out on the far end of the kingdom,
We witness the wars and horrors of the King.
Our brothers and sisters get killed before our every eyes.
The soldiers tax our people more than we can pay,
And steal the food and words straight from our mouths.
And as I write this on the dirt path,
My kin will be next to the silver blade.
Yet the King lives on.
As my feet drag long the cobblestone path,
As the cool metal from the guards freezes my arms,
My head is placed between the two pieces of wood.
As the pull up the blade,
The crowd looks upon me.
And as my voice was about to be silenced,
I decide to speak my last words,
Because maybe my voice didn’t have to die when I did.
“Long live the people who die for freedom.”
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