Away from your splendor,
A cold wind she blows
In spite of your silence.
A harsh light...
You know?
Safely, in violence,
A sweet star above...
Hurt and desire
So far below.
The King cries out for more...
Dismay, at surrender...
Where white hours await.
Decay, so hollow,
A message it makes.
The King cries out for more...
His garden grows,
A sickly sore.
His garden grows,
A sickly sore.
His back now turned,
Against a wall,
They'll have his head,
Have his head.
His garden grows,
A sickly sore.
His garden grows,
A sickly sore.
There's a dagger in his poisoned mind,
His garden grew,
A sickly sore...
He wants more.
The King cries out for more...

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