Kings and dukes, a heap of flesh,
their ladies a feast for crows.
Castles and thrones cobwebs enmesh.
The darkness only grows.
Who has wrought this dreadful scene?
Why, poet, dream anew nightmare?
Why on such fearful fancies are you keen?
Why like the worm, is this your fare?
I am asleep, as are the dead;
like them I try to wake.
Shocking conventions, blood is red.
A tale or dream I make:
Such goblins now that make their home
in the halls once regal owned
drunk cups brimming full of foam,
and drunk, can't squeeze more wine from stone.
Tale Told 