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They crowned me with a silver wreath
That was really made of
Melted soldiers’ bones and dried blood
Glazed with an iron glove.
They seated me on an onyx throne
They thought would make me king,
But I always pricked my fingers
On its pluckèd wasp stings.
They held golden feasts in my name
Where they all cheered, “Hero!
“Immaculate! Wholesome! Great!”
Though truth paint’d me at zero.
And behind their chants I could hear
Shrieks the dead heart knows naught—
Silent screams of a child
Whose soul was tempest fraught.
They chained me down with brass cuff links
And I hid my head and cried
As they trampled over the hands
Spring’s white song had denied.
So why are they cursing my life
As I burn this nightmare?
Are they blind to their own horrors?
Can’t they taste the poison’d air?
I never wanted claims to hell
Or any mortal’s kiss—
But beggars aren’t allowed to choose
And ignorance is bliss.