Sir Francis Bacon At the Net

Merciless nature
Human and mother
Walk this land
Each through the arm of the other
Their tithe they count in millions
In a Land that loves its villains
So calculating
It parses a man
Between the hand that held the dream
And the sword being held by the hand
Their golden frames hang gleaming
Tangled bones of their crimes bleaching
Their golden frames hang gleaming
Bleaching bones of their crimes tangling
There he stands
A mere mist of a thing
Waiting his turn
To challenge the King
He counts his time in centuries
He lives on the smallest of mercies
He counts his time in centuries
As the map is unrolled
The dagger comes out
And that which was certain
Will now end in doubt
Thank you Sir Francis Bacon
Another piece of advice not taken
Thank you Sir Francis Bacon
Another piece of advice not taken