The taffeta princess wants to take the hill So we stomp forward to the crest Why should we give our very lives Take from the dark prince Give it all to silken queen We want a quiet field somewhere With a gentle milking cow A child to read our stories A wife to kiss our brow Instead we slog through knee-deep mud As she sips wine from gilded cups Considers ruby markers on a map That tell her in some abstract frame Where our company spends the day In some forsaken winter bog To her we are some simple marker That to win her futile game She may put in to the box We have no love for her name Knowing that our very lives Are tokens to the silken fox
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2006