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The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king.
The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrim's door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants
the funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch
To the court of the crimson king.
The gardener plants an evergreen
Whilst trampling on a flower.
I chase the wind of a prism ship
To taste the sweet and sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
The orchestra begin.
As slowly turns the grinding wheel
In the court of the crimson king.
On soft grey 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 puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king.
- Álbum:
- Songs of a Lifetime
- Miscellaneous
- Manoeuvres
- Greg Lake: The Solo Collection
- Greg Lake: Live
- Mastermix Christmas
- King Biscuit Flower Hour: Greg Lake
- Christmas: The Album
- Works, Volume 1
- From the Beginning: The Greg Lake Retrospective
- Christmas GoldDisc AX1
- Greg Lake
- Classic Rock: Cool Christmas
- Gary Moore and Greg Lake
- 100% Christmas
- King Biscuit Flower Hour Presents Ringo & His New...
- The Best of Progressive Rock
- The Best of Rock
- Alive and Acoustic
- Classic Rock: Sounds of Christmas