[Lyric] The King (Byron de la Vandal)

[Byron: I wrote this song a couple summers ago, walking on the beaches of middle Oregon. The sand and the waves.. this outcropping of clay arose from the beach. It reminded me of.. something. Man that's fucking gay, I'm sorry]
[Friend: I can cut this out just keep going]
[Byron: Whatever, fuck it. Doing it live]



The King prefers to sit alone
Out of the range of the spray and the foam
And his hounds and his men might come hunting once again
Never shall they ever venture to take him from home

From clay he shaped his humble throne
With his calloused hands he called it his home
And those traitorous waves steal it time and again
They'll keep on pushing him farther up into the stone

His beard is grayed and his hands are cold
His crown is dented and his boots have grown mold
But he sings with a passionate voice made for a wren
It's the most beautiful song a mortal can ever behold
No queen shall stand beside his throne
He will have no children to call his own
But the song that he sings intertwines with the fate of us men
Song that he sings he'll forever sing it alone

He has packed his bags and he's ready to go
His time has come and I think that he knows
And I shake for I shall never see him ever again
But O! My king! You'll prefer to go it alone