Truth at Endor

Gazing at a bearded skeleton robed in red

Beside the promethean flames, where I stay sitting

Realising throughout my forty years ruling,

I was already dead.

An endless storm already brewing,

Raindrops mark the drumming

Chosen by him, small, still from spring

Told I was special, anointed me King

Now he turns away from me, with his perpetual grin

I was select, but in a cruel trick played on me

I was a sole paragon of how not to be.

Even now, he continues to sentence me to my doom

And welcome me, as he always had done, to my tomb

The Witch of Endor, the Lord may detest,

Yet now I know, after forty two years of waiting

And seventy two years of serving,

Where my fate shall rest.