A voice there remained so unsung
That it saddened to depth the day.
While marching men’s armors wrung,
He ate on a hill with wine and played.
The Marching Men:
The tapping of our feat is one,
You fool, you fool and your flute
Pray rot with your wine and bun.
It’s to our names folks sing and salute.
Our blades are fine and arrows sharp
Our strength is greater than of any beast
While with wine and bun you lark.
We shall march for an eternal feast.
We roar louder than any thunder
Come! Enmity with all its may.
With your wine and bun do wonder
Against us immortals what is your say?
I saw the men of song and salute.
I saw the men of eternal fest.
I saw men claiming immortality
I saw the men of souls unrest.
I saw them all lost, not won
I, therefore, play over my wine and bun.
“I have been a king.
I have been a slave.
Yet I know
Same taste of the grave.”
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