Your lies, deceptions, and conceit
Would make the hearts of sinners weep.
Not to have entered the reckoning is no bad thing
Who aspires to what becomes a king?
Though a man may sit upon a throne
What true contentment has he known?
That trick of gold that is a crown
Sits proudly on a furrowed brow.
Entombed within a vaulted room-
An all-possessing sense of doom
When sleep will come in fits and starts
A chasm opens in the heart…
You cannot trust one word they say-
Who would the love of kings betray.
One day, you too, would die alone
Your coffin to Westmister borne…
Your bier be drawn through crowded streets
Though, who, would tears of sorrow weep?
The Crowning, and the unctions said
Vainglory to His fate was led.
The Annals of the Tudor Age
Besmeared with blood on every page.