Crimson red, and glorious gold.
Two vibrant colors, of a tale never told.
A king and his servant, rein 'til they grow old,
though the price on this kings head,
would leave his whole kingdom sold.
A man with a knife,
aims to take the kings life,
and with it his wealth,
his honor, and health.
An impossible task,
he who endeavors won't last.
For none can hide through a mask,
in a crowd of men, so vast.
Countless numbers have tried,
and fell where past bodies have lied.
While others remain tied, if they haven't yet died.
This king hasn't cried, only laughed and sighed,
at the men who give their lives, while he waits, and abides.
Bloodshed that won't end,
til one man, has the kings head.
Who will go where others will not tread,
perhaps a servant in the kings stead.
As royalty lays down in his bed,
he won't wake in the morning, for he will be dead.
The only guard with a key,
to the kings chamber, you see,
killed the king in his sleep,
so his life, he could keep,
and so all of the servants,
could live happy, and free.
