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The Crown

The crown has lost its rose.

Though we now bow only to the king, 

His heart has become froze.

 

Cold is the wind that blows,

Dreariness do the kingsmen bring.

The crown has lost its rose.

 

Weary are the poeple, suffering heavy-handed blows,

Fat is the scavenging crow, soaring on outstretched wing,

His heart has become froze.

 

Within the town unrest grows,

Plans are drawn of uprising. 

The crown has lost its rose.

 

"Archers, ready thy bows!"

A mother covers her child, weaping.

His heart has become froze.

 

Red turns the river as it flows,

No longer do the cavalry choirs sing. 

The crown has lost its rose,

His heart has become froze.






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