Yon lives a city dearth of purpose,
Surviving with incurable curses.
Glowing green grass grows around.
Water rushes, silent in sound.
White pasty buildings line the plain.
Happiness has left, but the people remain.

In this bleak city, lacking wonder,
The people traverse frail from hunger.
They starve not for food, nor money, nor love.
Freedom is what they’re famished of.
They’ve plenty of company, time, and water.
They’ve anything a city could need to prosper.

But cursed be these healthy beings.
Shown on their sombre skin’s the readings
Of ****** rapacity from their King,
Left with despair and decrepit scenes.

With qualm in their veins, they serve their ruler.
The people obey Him with death on their shoulders.
They carry hope, their lore, and illicit sin
As they stroll through the city with dismal within.