Rolling hills of the palace land outline the countryside.
The king's castle looms larger than life.
Golden wheat stalks sway gently in the breeze.
Lush green pastures go on forever,
until winter comes.
I tend to my sheep,
herding them to the east.
I sit on down on a cold wet stone.
Start to daydream as always about things more precious than gold.
I lay my old staff on the cool ground.
It was carved with a knife that was bartered for a lamb.
My cloak is all torn,
its ragged and worn.
The hat on my head is in shambles for sure,
doesn't keep rain out no more.
My fingers are sore.
My feet growing weary.
Exhaustion is nearing.
When, oh when, will this peasant life end?