The last great knight has left the lists
too fat to fit his breeches,
He seeks succour in foaming ale
and the Apothecary's leeches.

The Queen completes her tapestry
begun she knows not when,
And now she's done, unpicks each stitch
and starts over again.

The King looks out on cloistered courts
his garden in full flower,
But the man who made this golden age
are dead drunk in the tower.

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