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Epitaph/ The Court Of The Crimson King
Greg Lake
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The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
with nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams.
Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl... a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
On soft gray mornings widows cry... the wise men share a joke... I run to grasp divining signs... to satisfy the hoax... the yellow jester does not play but gently pulls the strings... and smiles as the puppet stands in the court of the Crimson King...
AHaaa... AHaaa... AHaaa... AHaaa... AHaaa... AHaaa
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