My shooting star ran out of
ammunition
as all my wishes died there in the
dirt,
the wind blew out my candles, no
more wishing,
I'd have to face the future, take
the hurt.
I'd always thought my suit of
armor iron
impregnable to lances from
afar,
but tournaments can leave a jester
crying,
the White Knight falls - just like
a dying star.
The six-gun kid was lightning-fast
and younger,
his aim was like an eagle on the
wing,
I needed lead, but never had the
hunger,
denied the cruelty needed to be
King.
Capitulation always made me
nervous,
and wounds of innuendo look so
glum,
the Princess orders servants now
to leave us
and doesn't see her father drop
his thumb.
Goodbye, cruel world - a cliché
and a blessing,
I search the avid crowd and find
no friends,
the broad blade falls, I learn my
final lesson,
and by the sword - like life - my
story ends.