O king of the small, the weak, the broken Raise your sword, strike forth with righteous zeal at the gilded heart of the those on high Who grind us down under their heel
O king of the gutter, lord of the blessed poor Shatter the shield of birth and bounty Bring to their golden doors bloodshed and war Let a fire rage across every hamlet, borough and county
O King of copper, toil, and spirit that feels betrayal's sting From the ranks you lead to hard-earned liberty The next great tyranny will spring So it is that begets a new cycle of misery
O king who stands for the meek, who frees the chained Do not fall, lose not hope, for darkness cleves to the soul of all men, so does the light which is its bane Only with stout will and dogged drive can wickedness be contained
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