Old King Cole

Old King Cole was a brutal soul, and a bloody old soul had he
He called for his mead and his gun so cold, and he called for his little pigs three
Now every piggy had a razor blade and sharpened it with glee
Oh, far and near, they all learn fear from King Cole and his little pigs three

Factories churn, bodies burn,
Stars are shining bright.
It’s your turn, now you learn
How King Cole feasts tonight

Old King Cole was not missold, of years he had a hundred score,
The dark appliance of infernal science would give him millennia more
And he would watch as the suns burned out, collapsing from their core
Oh, never to forgive he would eternal live, his hands stained red from gore.


Old King Cole had conquered and stole the wealth of a thousand suns
Surrounded was he by bodyguards three, who murdered for their sovereign’s fun
Arrayed in armour black as ebony, it did no good to run
Whatever the task, the grim pig mask would tell you that your days were done


“In the centre of Zantine, capitol city of New Constantinople, there stood a vast palace. Cavernous halls by their hundreds were cared for by staff too numerous to count, while beneath, tunnels and passageways unused for a dozen lifetimes sprawled under the city like a spider’s web, reaching every nook and lurking place. Somewhere at the centre of this labyrinth, there stood a small, unremarkable chamber, roughly hewn from thick black rock, where King Cole sat on his white throne. His shrivelled frame seemed all the more twisted and unnatural on its ivory bulk, surrounded, as always, by the three little pigs: silent guardians who never spoke as the blood pooled on the floor before their ruler. The feast was soon to begin.”

Old King Cole had a tale he told to those brought before his throne.
Immense and white it gleamed in the night, the colour of sun-bleached bone.
He’d whisper softly in their ear, the words were never known.
None could tell what he said, save for the dead and the three little pigs alone.