Looking into the fireplace, I see a child with a pale face.
A furrowed brow, it carries a frown.
It won't look at me, but I can see that it wears a crown
Snobby, child that dies, in fire does drown.
Royalty is a shroud, in darkness it floats, in the black of the flood.
In the mists of the cloud, there is nothing else, all that's left is blood.