Can you call it? 

Other than a season, other than your ego, the whispers to color a 

rainbow, a hall of castles?

The rivers go, they go, they go

What to do?

The rivers go, they go, they go, 

What to do?

Windsor calls to the lonesome, to the tens, then a few

Have the guts to cross waters, moats and the sea wall

The guilt that encompasses not just me but all metal

The Silver circles

They cause havoc greater then a drunken wife, knife drawer in hand

The knights cause a lesser damage than a 

intellectual man such as you could grip in your cool, cool hand 

Luke

Cool hand Luke

The fingers of men spread in a way that no wolf could grasp, no 

lace could be sewn into the metal form I can wear on my own 

One to save me from the dreary draft that does surely come from 

flailing about in the river to drown

left side a knight, just a man with his fingers, face drawn to be 

bound to the cards, that barely covered or kept warm 

Cool Hand Luke