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Over The Hills And Far Away

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The last great knight Has left the lists too fat to fit his breeches He seeks a cure In foaming ale and the apothecary's peaches The queen completes a tapestry Begun she knows not when And now she's done Unpicks each stitch and starts over again The king looks out On cloistered courts, his gardens in full flower But the men who made This golden age are dead drunk in the tower