(McDonald/Sinfield)
|
The rusted chains of prison moons
|
Are shattered by the sun.
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I walk a road, horizons change
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The tournament's begun.
|
The purple piper plays his tune,
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The choir softly sing;
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Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
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For the court of the crimson king.
|
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The keeper of the city keys
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Put shutters on the dreams.
|
I wait outside the pilgrim's door
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With insufficient schemes.
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The black queen chants
|
the funeral march,
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The cracked brass bells will ring;
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To summon back the fire witch
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To the court of the crimson king.
|
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The gardener plants an evergreen
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Whilst trampling on a flower.
|
I chase the wind of a prism ship
|
To taste the sweet and sour.
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The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
|
The orchestra begin.
|
As slowly turns the grinding wheel
|
In the court of the crimson king.
|
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On soft gray mornings widows cry
|
The wise men share a joke;
|
I run to grasp divining signs
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To satisfy the hoax.
|
The yellow jester does not play
|
But gentle pulls the strings
|
And smiles as the puppets dance
|
In the court of the crimson king.
|
|
-----------------
|
In The Court Of The Crimson King
|
| King Crimson |
