Paul Roland - The king is dead

The court, the Keep and corridoors are ankle deep in dust,
and cobwebs hang like tapestries in the armouries of rust.

Beat the black draped, muffled drum, cast orchids on his bed,
sound the carved white funeral horn for lo, the King is dead.

The banners in the banquet hall have faded like dull rags,
and feasting on the crumbs beneath a brood of wretched hags.

The servants drank the cellars dray and stole the silverware,
the jailor and the jester danced, a most ungainly pair.

In the room of cracked spines and parchment
Sat the scribe, quill poised and back bent
Blowing dust from the black Book of Hours.

The widowed Queen she does not mourn, but wears a funeral gown,
hides a smile beneath her veil, teases baubles from the crown.

Beat the black draped, muffled drum, cast orchids on his bed,
sound the carved white funeral horn for lo, the king is dead.

Category:

Music

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• Duel