No more than sawdust on the floor, these songs of praise this turning lathe this shaving of humanity. I wait to see what morning brings and what the new day has to say about these songs we sing.
Praising Kings, all well enough but there is other stuff to do important stuff more than enough to make the praising of a King,seem something more or nothing less than luxury.
And luxury is in short supply, The Kings have taken it, that's why, and we, the last knockings of a fractured society still want to sing a song of praise.
In all my days I've never seen a King nor Queen who'd want to be the last one knocking on the doors of this, the wooden pegs that nail us shut within the cut off,if for, but of and because humanity has ceased to give a flying fig it's got to big for its own boots left behind the roots that gave the feet of man the hands to change,remodel,mould another master plan and I am reaching for the knotted rope to wind around my neck,I hope you'll sing a ****** song for me a ballad would be praise indeed for us the ones we find in need the deed is done The King is dead Long live the King echoes round the rope that swings around my swinging head in the end because it always was the end that lent me moments to despair of rotating silent,deathly pale and wondering, was this life fair but here or there or anywhere you care to bring, you sing you praise, ferment your days and build up hope but in effect you are the ones who swing upon the rope that chafes the skin we never win we always break down at the altar just before a mass is said Long live the King who lived so long and now The King is dead.