The Fallen King
Your world is at an end; at last, it’s done
My king; you’re dead, but Ha! I am now free
Your tyrant’s grip, stretch’d far across the sea,
Is broken, and you’ve lost but I have won.
Your pride, which challenged the bright sov’reign sun,
Has been your ruin, and now you must see
I am not, will not (I would die than be)
A pawn or dog who’s forbidden to run.
So lo, I crept in wrath and spite to you,
Your face creased deep with the fine lines of age
And with these hands I plunged the blade right through.
Did you suspect my life was just a stage?
And from this act that I cannot undo,
My hands are stained forever with my rage.
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