Scrambled rambling and irrationality contained in romantic balladry.

There’ll be no prize found under the false king’s throne
Don’t take acceptance as a signifier of healthy bones
I guess this world’s made for being alone

I’ve heard men saying they’re helping but helpless
Seen several fences painted in nonexistent colors
Found eighteen stones that were really a forest
Fell fourteen years into the voice of a chorus
Expelled a hundred sailors sullen and broken
Ate ten-thousand songs on a plate that was stolen
Made eleven beds in the image of a fortress
Sat many days inside the darkened prison
Where I played with minds that create blurred visions
Pretended to follow while masking our derision
Built pretty steeples atop a far sunken existence
But I’ll go-on igniting the fires of my persistence