Where Have All the Good Men Gone

My crown for sleep for I am weary;
I have worn my reign, now I am done.
Go tell the saints, no longer fear me,
for the devil knows what I’ve become.

I’ve bloodied the plays I have authored
when I strayed from the heart He had saved.
His shepherds and flocks I had slaughtered
on the path that I trampled and paved.

I’ve scorned His truths with indifference,
I have darkened His light with my name.
To have soured the fruits of His presence
as I sated my cravings for fame.

Wrought slanders to blandish my speeches,
for the rabble, they loved everyone.
They sang: “Here’s the man who can lead us.”
But to where have all the good men gone?

They fell for the tales of my valour:
how I pierced His flesh with my horns.
And spat in His face for my pleasure,
how I mocked Him with a Crown of Thorns.

One’s might out of terror and pillage
whilst my armies marched fat on the spoils.
A toast, to who sculpted my image
and my feats on a canvas of oils.

I, who had the touch of the Midas;
I governed from the point of my sword.
To live at the whims of my justice
and perish on the blades of my word.

Of the one, of a thousand faces,
my minions played the pawns in my plays.
Who would kill to do up my laces
in brawling for the crumbs of my praise.

When found me alone in my chambers,
to what purpose, this actor’s disguise?
The visions of truths in my mirrors
and cracking with the creases of lies.

What befalls the lead and his players,
of a theatre played putrid and bled?
When those, who to arms, now to prayers;
of what left, to bequeath, but the dead.

Where forth is that dream without sorrow,
when I followed the love of His song.
When Peace was the quest, my tomorrow;
to go to where the good men have gone.