Simon Bookish Richard Of York
The royal meteorologist's expression is pained
The weather looks bad and it's starting to rain
Wasting his prayers on a fate already sealed
Kneeling in a tent, intent, in a Bosworth field
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Richard of York gave battle in vain
This weatherman, whose charts predict severe precipitation
Couldn't say, couldn't say the future of a nation
Fearing Richard of York giving battle in vain
He pleads with the king in a language untamed:
"Oh please insane monarch don't you know what you're doing
Get down off your steed a storm is a-brewing
Written right here in history on pages unturned
Give the king half an hour he'll be food for the worms"
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Richard of York gave battle in vain
But the nonchalant king, with his transparent skin
Views the battlefield and yawns as a grey day dawns
In his veins a juice flows of a curious colour
Not blood but white rose hence the unearthly pallor
The sky rains down daggers cutting mud from the loam
Richard's whole army washed away by the storm
Crying "Spur your proud horses", the Tudors upon him
But the sun, not the storm, tears him limb from pale limb
"Chisels a prism where once was an eye
Splits open his chest as he lays down to die
The hills and the standards are strangely afire
As he bleeds seven hues into England's grey sky"
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Richard of York gave battle in vain
Richard of York gave battle in vain
