The sorrow is not mine but theirs
the hi-jacked shepple feeding on pasteurized delusions
sterilize away reality and skimmed minds without integrity
carefully stored lives at mitigating temperatures to obey and serve

Yet they do not see or want to see
their chains and mind-cuffs painted in alchemy's gold
nor know that their basement jazz keeps them in basements
and the bee-keeper blows the laden smoky hot air to keep them calm

The sport of Kings come see the horse chase
in your pen on the turf here are the starting prices
forget your fathers and fore-fathers were the shire horses
pulled carts and tilled the land for the gold owned by your masters

Milked you now drink the pasteurized slop
grow tall and sinewy sell your brawn in mitigated lives
do not drink from the wishing well or leave your park all green
look your hovel is your castle and you can join in the sport of Kings

And so sheeple sleeps in powerful calm
the blood of shires rustling in their veins from their ancestors
comforted mirages of power and significance behind chained bars
And The Bee smoker whiffs over drones as they drone in sheepleville