(McDonald/Sinfield)
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The rusted chains of prison moons
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Are shattered by the sun.
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I walk a road, horizons change
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The tournament's begun.
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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.
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I wait outside the pilgrim's door
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With insufficient schemes.
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The black queen chants
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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.
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I chase the wind of a prism ship
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To taste the sweet and sour.
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The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
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The orchestra begin.
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As slowly turns the grinding wheel
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In the court of the crimson king.
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On soft gray mornings widows cry
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The wise men share a joke;
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I run to grasp divining signs
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To satisfy the hoax.
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The yellow jester does not play
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But gentle pulls the strings
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And smiles as the puppets dance
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In the court of the crimson king.
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-----------------
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In The Court Of The Crimson King
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King Crimson |