She pictures her death,
The rope hung on a tree.
The words you said,
The lies you've told,
The rumors you spread,
The hurtful thought you put in her head,
They all become the rope.
This is everyone's fault,
the people she asked for help,
And told her "you're fine",
The people who hurt her the most.
It all becomes the rope,
The rope she uses to end her own life.

One hundred men gather to decide their king.

They bring their minds and gold together;
They weave a crown of rope with gilded string,
Then, quietly, it lay before them in the grass

The first man moves to seize the rope,
"See your king with rope in grasp!"
Another comes and yanks it back, "I brought more gold than you!"

Another comes, and another still, 'till every man has seized the rope,
Until it wrapped around the throat of someone in the feud.
"Hold! We've gone too far," said the man whose throat was caught.

The rabble of the hundred men ended as it came,
And each the golden rope held firm; one-hundred men had pulled the knots.
The man who brought the most gold said to the one who seized it first,

"I'd rather you, the first to take the rope, be king!"

The first to lift it said back,
"And I that it were any of you!"