The old king sitting on his throne,
Chills running through his bone,
sits in shadow, not alone,
those that would be king.

Daggers creep on quiet feet,
Snakes all whisper something sweet,
the wolves all watch his golden seat,
Those that would be king.

They all want his crown and key,
but none of them can ever see,
the sword that’s hanging, Damocles,
Those that would be king.


Men with daggers in their cloak,
promise, oath, and friendship broke,
sing his praises, try not to choke,
those that would be king.

They watch his sword with wary eyes,
afraid he can see through their lies,
praying that tonight he dies,
those that would be king.

The king stands bleeding, all alone,
don't call out, there’s no one home,
soon he’s buried under stone,
By those that would be king