Bloodsworn to his king,
a knight would risk his place.
His home, his wife, his everything,
to repay his monarch’s grace.
But what mortifying, malicious form of mercy was this really?
The joy of the king to know how easy it would be to take any enemy’s head?
The perfect perpetrator, nothing but wanting and greedy.
Think, what could those noble riders of war supported instead?
They could have given many others a chance,
a chance to live in bliss.
By the might of the sword, or the lance.
Who would pass up a chance such as this?
Welcome O Knights of old,
to where words serve as more than a simple tool.
This, you must all be told.
Here, O Knights of old, the people rule.