Threads of wool weave the web, the will of the damned will take your head.
Of mines of gold and ore and rock, the air is still the morning soft.

He returns once more, a zip, a cork, the duke of yore, dines at the table, then sleeps.
Forever more, his ancestors frown, he guzzles his wine, the people will drown.

The yoke, it split, the mud in the pit, the bane of the damned and the universal fan.
Strong blows the wind, it keeps the cold in, the warmth of the belly reweaves his sin.

The lance screams and deflects off his fur, the heart a flutter, the duke did mutter.
The clown was round, and came with a plan, for he was the real, rock and roll man.

The clown was sick, a delightful prick, he tricked the duke who slipped on his puke.
To save the day, we hear the night cry, for it is his duty to watch, to see, to die.

He rips he tears at the jokers hair, then a half moon glint whistles through the air.
Without a doubt it took him out, it was poison tipped for the traitorous bout.