The bells, them bells, let bells ring – toll for
Three young sons, parting once their king;
A father’s throne now lingers.
Raise The Heavens! rise from the pew, mourn
And leave goodbyes, the priest thus spoke
With great lives come bitter ends, as great men lay to die.
We live on barren plains, suffering is our joy, Let us
Come celebrate, our father, the glory, the throne.
One possession left from his will, left to you brothers three;
Hold this knife you chosen son, beloved first born one,
'Tis the lot of the full man’s life. Know, what’s given
Come by either ends of a Knife. The man passed a Sunday,
By fortnight buried in a marsh.
The bells, the bells, the bells kept their ring,
As one young son, pondered the face of his new king;
Around thrones they linger.
Look at him, my brothers crown does not sit right.
By birth his – yet I am abler and far more strong,
It is but right, to right that which is wrong. Don't forget,
Small daggers cast long shadows through the night.
(to be continued?)