The rusted chains of prison moons
  are shattered by the sun
  I walk a road, horizons change
  the tournament’s begun
  The purple piper plays his tune
  the choir softly sing
  Three lullabies in an ancient tongue
  for the court of the crimson king
  
  The keeper of the city keys
  put shutters on the dreams
  I wait outside the pilgrim’s door
  with insufficient schemes
  The black queen chants
  the funeral march
  The cracked brass bells will ring
  to summon back the fire witch
  to the court of the crimson king
  
  The gardener plants an evergreen
  whilst trampling on a flower
  I chase the wind of a prism ship
  to taste the sweet and sour
  The pattern juggler lifts his hand
  the orchestra begin
  As slowly turns the grinding wheel
  in the court of the crimson king.
  
  On soft grey mornings widows cry
  the wise men share a joke
  I run to grasp divining signs
  to satisfy the hoax
  The yellow jester does not play
  but gently pulls the strings
  and smiles as the puppets dance
  in the court of the crimson king