Gleaming shell of an outworn lie, fable of Right Divine
You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood was the price of mine
The throne I won by blood and sweat, by Crom I will not sell
For promise of valleys filled with gold, or threat of the Halls of Hell!
When I was a fighting man, the kettle-drums they beat
The people scattered gold dust before my horse’s feet
But now I am a great king; the people hound my track
With poison in my wine cup and daggers at my back.
What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?
I who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky.
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing.
Rush in and die, dogs — I was a man before I was a king!
wear gold on your fingers. wear darkness as your crown. rule through fear, through power, through the blood on your teeth and the grasp of your reaching hands. offer your blessing only at great cost, and never compromise. give back only what you wouldn’t miss. accept only the best. never change your crooked way for anyone; yours is strength, and control, and the violent glory of life and death itself.