We men at best are only crimson kings
Who’re caught between the diadem and throne;
We wield the power, weep at what it means-
Miles to conquer, and none of it is home.

We laugh at jokes and toasts, as it's expected,
Reward well both the Jester and the Count
Though little things of kingdom get neglected,
While we the weary battle foils must mount.

But there's one crown of curls, upon one head,
That I'd go farther than the oldest tales;
She sleeps so near now, in her downy bed-
Most men stay free, inside their private hells.

Some night I'll bribe the Moon, in his far space
And build within my heart, a special place..