Beauty is gold,
According to him,
He who sits in the high chair.
Crimson is bad,
Blood is sad,
According to he
Who sits in the high chair.
In the night,
What a sight,
Beauty flowing from the fight.
It is our fear,
That keeps us here.
Always hiding for the sake of our dear.
Steely eyes,
We can’t hide.
Bloody swords
That we,
Will fight for.
Escaping the hold,
He was bold,
Finding something to fight for.