How Merry Are the Sheep

Pulled on and tugged along,

So like puppets on a string;

How merry is their song

As they serenade their king.

In merriness and mirth

Do they offer up their sword

To he who weighs their worth

With not more than passing word.

With laugh they seal their fate

And with glee they pass away,

Into a world of hate

And a many-splintered day.

The bagpipes then doth wheeze

And the violins doth sigh;

They’re hoping then to please

The Liar who sits on high.

They offer up their gold

To rescue their putrid souls—

As if they could be sold,

And with such miserly goals.

They prance about the room,

With the clap and stomp of foot,

Preparing for the tomb

That doth fester underfoot.

They’ll reach an early grave,

Whether Fate have ruth or not

Their hope of being saved

Lies deep in the mort and rot.

But should the Princess deign

To rummage through the mort,

It would not be in vain

To rescue that sordid court.

How merry are the sheep,

Dancing toward the slaughter;

Should life they hope to keep,

They rely on the daughter.

Should marred become her path,

And the darkness bar her way,

She shall revoke his wrath,

And reveal the light of day.

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