Merciless nature, human and mother walk this land 
Each through the arm of the other 
Their tithe they count in millions 
In a Land that loves its villains 
So calculating it parses a man 
Between the hand that held the dream 
And the sword being held by the hand 
Their golden frames hang gleaming 
Tangled bones of their crimes bleaching 
Their golden frames hang gleaming 
Bleaching bones of their crimes tangling 
There he stands a mere mist of a thing 
Waiting his turn to challenge the 
King He counts his time in centuries 
He lives on the smallest of mercies 
He counts his time in centuries 
As the map is unrolled the dagger comes out 
And that which was certain will now end in doubt 
Thank you 
Sir Francis 
Bacon Another piece of advice not taken 
Thank you 
Sir Francis 
Bacon Another piece of advice not taken