Truth

In the land of the ephemerie,
where the waters of Delphi flow
there the place of noble breed,
of men with purpose to few is known.

Ruled once by great King Richard
(of who's Knights, they were but poor)
it was a place of nobility
that would some day surely need shore.

For like the creature for which it is named,
(a life of slight instant, to be sure)
the life's blood of this place
would course but only for one measure, only for one frame.

Like Camelot before her,
the black Knight he would not tarry.
For Arture, Black was the lust,
in Briefington twas the Sir Teddy the lush!

To live but only an instant,
one breath, and only one beat;
they packs in the life before them,
before that life she is repleat.

The fate of this Nation,
its generations are untold.
Whilst breeding like wild banshies,
yet in that breath, nothing can grow old.

No knowledge is passed,
no ventures are gained.
No history for young-on's
for in one wink they are aged.

So drink merry knights!
Drink into this eve.
Thy temple not nagged by morning's bright light,
thy living not worried with such terrible slight.

With no need for religion,
no need for distress,
thy life is thy fortress,
thy life is thy death.

So live on merry gents,
(what living you do)
there'll be no morrow
so go on with your "do".

Fear not the wagging tongue
(for who will they tell?)
and that future generation,
is doomed the same hell.

If one soul is set free
from this terrible land,
let that soul be the one,
who'll build a future with plan.

Let his countenance be true,
and his writings be few;
but what writing is wrung,
let it be not in warning, but this "history" undone.

For no history exists in that raunchy, short life
That damned liberertine ephemerie
and forsaken, empassioned short life.

King Richard had wrought it
many ages ago
and lives just got shorter
with each passing new row.

The streams of sweet truth,
flow gentle, straight twine;
but for not the ephemerie
who drowns waters turned lie.

Their life is their reason,
their life is their proof
of what history of living
each life is a spoof.

So drink on poor ephemerie
till the spring is but trickle.
You drink up her soul,
yet the Father slings scycle.

Your libertine life,
in one instant undone.
Its Creator has ripped it,
from your fallow soiled fun.

When enough generations have come
and have gone,
the very existence you crave,
is existence undone.

Take NOT! down this Nation,
do not take it in strife,
for these hands that have worked it
your passions can't take ALL life.

Drink on short-lived Nation,
drink into this night,
your drinking shorts living
but ours is right, long life.