All that glitters is not gold,

Nor silver, nor bronze,

The tall barrelled ceiling adorned in

Scintillating crystal,

One graced in pure cut stones,

Dragging along the floor crassly

With it weight pulled by a thousand temples,

Each string of treasure frolicking

Round the other,

Sardonic little men

Flaunting upon this misfortune excuse

Of a robe,

And as do the silken waterfalls

Hung at his waist.

He is only gilded,

Unlike the hand guiding his sumptuous shoulder,

One which grows earthly riches

From within the blood,

One which is tethered by the neck-

On the other end, insensitive and egoistic,

A deceitful sovereign

Tugs with such force,

Striking fear and forcing the capering

Strands of shimmering gold

To come to a quick halt.

In his ear, the wandarer smiles and speaks;

_If this is your whole and sincere name,_

_I will kneel and pray before your end._

_If it is not so,_

_You will take place in deaths open jaw_

_For all to see how this great ruler_

_Really takes shape,_

_A young, negligent boy,_

_No older than his sworn son._

For the first time,

He stumbles back,

And the rubies which seemed so

Sure of themselves

Sat carved within the arches of the ceiling,

Begin to crumble!