A carved oak table,
  Tells a tale
  Of times when kings and queens sipped wine from goblets gold,
  And the brave would lead their ladies from out of the room
   to arbours cool.
    A time of valour, and legends born
  A time when honour meant much more to a man than life
  And the days knew only strife to tell right from wrong
  Through lance and sword.
    Why, why can we never be sure till we die
  Or have killed for an answer,
  Why, why do we suffer each race to believe
  That no race has been grander
  It seems because through time and space
  Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore.
    A dusty table
  Musty smells
  Tarnished silver lies discarded upon the floor
  Only feeble light descends through a film of grey
  That scars the panes.
  Gone the carving,
  And those who left their mark,
  Gone the kings and queens now only the rats hold sway
  And the weak must die according to nature's law
  As old as they.
    Why, why can we never be sure till we die
  Or have killed for an answer,
  Why, why do we suffer each race to believe
  That no race has been grander
  It seems because through time and space
  Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore.