The crown is on the other head
Slumped over on my peasant's throne
I feel the gnawing ache alone
The one you know and felt before
When it was you spread on the floor
Face down and left for dead

It is not without most cautious care
You say your wanting, wistful words
It only feels as if great birds
Peck out every sense of feeling
How many cards must we be dealing
To steal away my stony stare

I know what lives there saving still
Inside a remade, hopeful shell
The end of else will come a bell
To resound a path and follow back
The whole of us we now so lack
A silver sainted perfect will