A carved oak table,

Tells a tale

Of times when kings and queens sipped wine from goblets gold,

And the brave would lead their ladies from out of the room

to arbours cool.

A time of valour, and legends born

A time when honour meant much more to a man than life

And the days knew only strife to tell right from wrong

Through lance and sword.

Why, why can we never be sure till we die

Or have killed for an answer,

Why, why do we suffer each race to believe

That no race has been grander

It seems because through time and space

Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore.

A dusty table

Musty smells

Tarnished silver lies discarded upon the floor

Only feeble light descends through a film of grey

That scars the panes.

Gone the carving,

And those who left their mark,

Gone the kings and queens now only the rats hold sway

And the weak must die according to nature's law

As old as they.

Why, why can we never be sure till we die

Or have killed for an answer,

Why, why do we suffer each race to believe

That no race has been grander

It seems because through time and space

Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore.