It Won't Look Like This Tomorrow

Here we are, East Tower
Don't mind the screams of the prisoners, son
Pretend they're songbirds
With beautiful voices

And that when they curse me and you to Hell
They're really just saying 'My, what a lovely day it is'
In they're sing-song-y bird voice

I wanted to bring you up here
Because you get the best view of the kingdom
Up here in the East Tower

Tomorrow, we go into battle, my son
And so everything laid out in front of you
Will be irreparably changed
One way or another
Win or lose

Especially if we lose

The invading army has been known to burn down
The kingdom of their enemies
If they lose in battle

And they dress up the men they defeat
In the silliest costumes

It's not what I wanted for you, son

To inherit a burnt down kingdom
While dressed as a bar wench

What a nice little kingdom

It may not be as grand as some of the others
But where else can you get shephard's pie
In a sugar-crusted cone?

I like to think that I've been a benevolent King
Kind, jolly, very slow to imprison the mentally ill
Even though I believe they've been touched by the Devil

I thought I had carved out my place in the record books
But since the record books are in the library
And since we made the mistake of building the library
In front of the gates to the kingdom
Instead of behind them
As almost nearly every one of our architects suggested
Before I had them jailed
The building and the records will most likely be the first thing
The Invaders destroy

I suppose building it with straw isn't going to help matters either

Hindsight, my son
Is a bitter whore
With an infected eardrum

Speaking of which--did you like your fourteenth birthday present?

It's customary to wait until a boy turns fifteen
Before you give him his first whore
But since you may not make it to fifteen
I figured why not

Perhaps we'll win tomorrow's war

Even though I sold off the army's weapons
So I could build that statue of myself
Riding naked upon a unicorn

We are, after all, a god-fearing people
And God protects those
Who build shrines to themselves

At least, that's how I interpret scripture

It's difficult to read Latin
When all the monks starved to death
During the famine

But if we do win, I shall not be the same man
And you shall not be the same boy

I would hope that we'd still be related
But who can say?

The world looks different
When it's been kissed by the lips of war

By the way, you didn't kiss the whore, did you?
If you kiss them
The Lord makes you sit in Purgatory
For an extra year before you can enter Heaven

Come here, son
And gaze at all before you

The statue of me
The buildings dedicated to me
The many, many children
Whom I probably sired
During my dalliances with the peasant women

Take it all in, my lad

For most certainly
It won't look like this tomorrow