The Last King Of Camelot

The last King of Camelot,
Sailed upon the breeze –
As his coffin moved through silent streets,
The world fell on its knees –

The stars fell down from the sky,
With a ghostly hollow shrill,
November twenty-second,
the day the Earth stood still –

Elm Street was a nightmare,
To sleep, perchance to dream –
And wonder upon what was lost,
and what could have, might have been –

A patsy at the window,
A magic bullet was the cause,
With Jack’s Ruby slippers,
We’re off to the land of Oz –

While fingers pointed all around,
The patsy got the blame –
As the killers swiftly slipped away,
To them it’s all a game –

Hiding in plain sight they say,
In a bush or in a tree –
By skull and bones, a game of thrones,
By the water’s gate times three –

Give them bread and circuses,
And a mop-top song to sing –
Feed them dope and sex and television,
And a dream on which to cling –

But the dreamer of our dreams is dead,
We can’t forget his name –
And since he passed away, you’ll see,
Nothing is the same –

That white picket fence has fallen,
It’s stripes are fading fast –
While a puppet king sits on the throne,
Another that won’t last –

Imposters they will come and go,
Forget them, forget them not –
But none are fit to lace his shoes,
The true King of Camelot!

Seán Gearárd McCloskey


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