A letter came in the mail,
"On Tuesday the ship will sail,
For the king is dead,
Murdered in his very own bed."
So I put on my Sunday best,
In the middle of the week when I have no rest,
To the seaside to watch the boat leave it's harbor,
Inside lays our king in his finest armor.
So the arrows are fired with a furious flame,
As the tip strikes the wood, calling ****'s name,
And the flaming king sails to the ends of the sea,
Leaving us commoners here to weep.
The widowed queen weeps into her cup of wine,
The prince is quiet for once in his life,
The baby princess sleeps through the night,
While everyone else is drunk on pain and lies.
The murderer has his eyes on a little boy,
Who was once a man before he fell for a ploy,
He is the heir to the man now dead,
He jumped off a cliff to end his own dread.
Now the widow is the newest target,
But she lost her unborn child to life's bargain,
She poisoned her own wine,
And left her living princess to die.
But this princess lived on,
Supported her people with her voice and song,
Saying, "Too myself I will do no wrong,
We're all there other has in our mournful throng."
The only queen ever to live,
Until her old age.
Her life she loved and herself she thought fit,
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