What is trust and what is faith,
When honour is weakness and every truth a lie?
Does it matter whether it is the first or the eighth?
When every lie is an arrow let fly?
The quivers are full and likely to remain so,
And the targets as like to keep coming.
There will be songs of treachery and of foe,
So guitar or bow, the strings are bound to remain thrumming.
There are far too many players,
And the seats too few.
A nightmare for every soothsayer,
And all the commonfolk too.
You see, the stakes are high
With bodies nailed to them too.
Dead people who once did try
To see if they could play too.
For even huge forest, castles, and towns
Are but sticks and stones,
When even fools and clowns
Play the game of thrones.
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