• He walks along, he stops and waits
    No expression in his mind
    As he thinks, he contemplates
    "What joy is there to find?"

    There is no muse, no sudden love
    Just sighs and yawns aplenty
    Just as his trinkets pile above
    Stories as high as twenty

    His castle stands a dull dull grey
    A monument to a chasm
    But sadly all that fills this way
    Is a lack of enthusiasm

    No jesters jest, no beings holler
    The count doesn't even care
    The knights joust why they even bother
    Their minds take wear and tear

    The count, a man who isn't bad
    Just bored out of his realm
    Just to see how little had
    an effect upon his helm

    The Sorrowed Poet