| A carved oak table
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| Tells a tale
|
| Of times when kings and queens sipped wine from goblets gold
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| And the brave would lead their ladies from out of the room
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| To arbours cool
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| A time of valour, and legends born
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| A time when honour meant much more to a man than life
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| And the days knew only strife to tell right from wrong
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| Through lance and sword
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| Why, why can we never be sure till we die
|
| Or have killed for an answer
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| Why, why do we suffer each race to believe
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| That no race has been grander
|
| It seems because through time and space
|
| Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore
|
| A dusty table
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| Musty smells
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| Tarnished silver lies discarded upon the floor
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| Only feeble light descends through a film of grey
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| That scars the panes
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| Gone the carving
|
| And those who left their mark
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| Gone the kings and queens now only the rats hold sway
|
| And the weak must die according to nature’s law
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| As old as they
|
| Why, why can we never be sure till we die
|
| Or have killed for an answer
|
| Why, why do we suffer each race to believe
|
| That no race has been grander
|
| It seems because through time and space
|
| Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore |