The Dead King's Horn
The rising sun will hear a horn,
Ringing out like a sour thorn,
It shall call out to the dying king,
And to the bells for them to sing,
A single blade will carry the deed,
Of such corruption is by greed,
The brother is thow that curse the land,
As death thrusts out his skinless hand,
A widow shall remove here silver ring,
To honor the fall of her beloveded king.
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