
Oh! Have I planted firm beliefs and plotted piety
These long arduous summer morns
Harvested frosty Winter
Erected a crown of prickly thorns
Twas the fated
Conquest to be
With the Man with Red Horns
Suffer the beast!
From dank brusk
Until breaking dawn
Of my crushing defeat
The Old Text
Fairly forewarns
Pity the Kings!
No more suffer the pawns!