In the cradle of the swing
sleeps on old and gentle king
that never sees the world beneath his nose, his door won’t close.

The diamond edge is square
yet no more worse for wear
it owns the ***** and clover through and through, oh who is who.

In the eye of the queen
a new card fresh on the scene
in memory of he who’s dead and gone, her hearts a swan.

It’s the axe that’s in her back
from her brother diamond jack
now sighing like a thumb out on the road, or so she’s told.

Sadly sleepless nights
just define her in the lights
in the morning sun she’ll never get to shine, well it’s almost time.

Around just one more hand
while our feet both sink in sand
to wash away the things we've always seen, the great machine.

OK here's the deal
you all can hear her squeal
but she'll never be what you yourself must see, her eyes will flee.

With the setting of the day
the silver crown won't weigh
so it crumbles into dust like ancient ships, that fell from lips. ~ C. Chance