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We downed the pints, the jester played, but he's not quite red, more like a burgundy
The prophet's wall are clogged tonight, athough he's not a captain, more a deputy
The sun rose over the roof-ridge as they work to find a new hitch
While your maiden of honour let her knickers down in the ditch
He's no saviour, he ain't on fire, no celestial body, he ain't been in space
Not even dead and practicing no witchery, because there is no such thing
The moon rose over the roof-ridge and the grades invent you a hitch
While your maiden of honour is perfecting her way as a bitch
Overreaching ability retains mundane utility
You make a farm out of a down
A streetwise pigeon rules your town
Underachieveing heresy of in-universe poetry
How d'you expect me to believe you're worth my heed?
What is new on the tiding front? You are parsing when you should be listening
You might as well indulge in staples, and it would be better, they would shut you up
The roof rose over your livecam as the nature dubbed you a man
While your maiden of honour soiled her pants in wait for the can
Though it is her ribbon, I've got some of my own
Hiding from the window, the best is yet to come
You know what they've been singing: Our pleasure is their pain
But thank your lucky feather it's only in the song and not upon the throne
Keep the music playing, playing for the free
Don't reduce its merit to crude war poetry
Down with all your gun pipes, down with all your banners
Mute the verbal kicker, let the music lead to prime utility