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