Sleeping Kings

Though I choose not to die this day
If my ghosts come back to meet and greet
When I lie sleepless in my bed, one foot already in the grave
I promise not to look away, and promise to fall asleep

The crown will be handed down; death my new thrown
The loss of one honorable, but nonetheless decieving wing
I sit on my wilted chair watching everyone I've ever known
Worship a new master, and forget the sleeping king

My son will now rein, from my wife he was bore
The bicth chose to ride me, the kniving whore
He will spit at and plot his tragic death
The end of ours, ready to be forgotten like the rest.