He sits wearily on a withered throne 
Rummaging through the consequences he had sown
He cannot cast blame; His choices were his own
Left to handle the destruction; alone 

Citizens cry out in the city streets 
An alarm reminding him of his defeats 
He grips the armrest as he recalls the deceits
This king would trade everything for peace

Men of the court bang on the oak doors
Trying to cheer him up with booze and whores
Riddled with guilt, sweat leaks from his pores
“Be gone, you, cowards!” he roars. 

Out of the window, the sun mocks him
Blue skies with puffy white clouds when it should be grim
Clergymen walk the blood-soaked streets singing a solemn hymn
He throws his crown on the ground on a whim

The golden crown clatters, echoing in the room
Nothing left but to accept this doom
Nothing left but to walk away from this gloom
Perhaps without his rule, flowers will once again bloom