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.