Richard the Dyingheart & The Kingdom of Good: Chronicle I (feat.

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, April 13, 2012 Under: Rhymed Verses
Richard the Dyingheart & The Kingdom of Good: Chronicle I


"Arise, King Richard approaches the court..." exclaims a maiden rogue
Draped in robes, covered head to toe..
Beard as long as his life, contrasting gently with the raging snows
He trots the halls; the smell of wine and cheese poached on his breath
The last of his blood line, nobody left, yet managed to cope with the stress
Summons his knights, the throne room drenched with decaying cob webs
In the age of the dead, the Round table fragile as fresh bakery bread...
The king raises his voice to counsel to his men:
"Let all silver goblets & bronze cylinders raise...what village shall we pillage today?
I've already got a small lair in Valhalla reserved with a crypt fit for a slave...
I need a grave to be built! These days are thin."
The Structure must resemble the art of the pyramids," his face a grayish tint
Builders knew he fancied Egyptian architecture,
— so they knew the predicament that they were in
The king thought: they truly are peasants with useless minds to me...
His bravest warrior Golan stood out:
"I will alert the armada to scrutinize the seas; to let loose the sky regime"
Then I rally every able worker to start construction..
This will truly be a wonder of the world that every lucid human eye should see!"
Let it be done! The structure begins..."
His throne room a domed rouge of royal blues, whites and greens
King Richard was content with himself, and sipped some wine in peace..
4 years later: The structure finally done, the pendulum blade swings
Twice the size of his predecessor's monument...
King Richard rejoices forth "this is without a doubt a place fit for a great king!
"He feels the gust of a rising sigh, the crimson tides of horizons wide
"For all your work and gratitude I will give you all a bottle of my finest wine!
All I ask in return is to drink it the hour after I have died
In the tomb of fallen kings to give your final's time.
"6 days later: King Richard passes, yet no one is carrying his grief
The kingdom follows his casket to his tomb, all scurrying with glee
They set the golden capsule down quickly, ready to start their feast
"Who shall speak?" the master of ceremonies screams..
Golan the Warrior strums out his chest and takes charge once again
He shouts with passionate conviction:
"Independence. Enjoy it while you can, but not in contempt...
"Villagers are confused, but there's booze! They raise their glasses in respect
The clock strikes 9 — the hour after King Richard had died
The kingdom starts to celebrate dancing in line — the commandments benign
They begin to feel numb — the villagers then drop
Little did they know their wine was laced with hemlock..
The kingdom silent, bodies spread throughout the tomb's edifice
Golan — the last man standing, ready to embark on this new exodus...
He gulped the last of his wine, the whites of his eyes waxen and dry
"Let us rest now by His Majesty's side, for we are all slaves...even after we die..."


Please, don't mind the mindlessness of my mind; what I scribe is pardoned
I've long sought the fickle green meadows of the Sky Templar's private gardens
All these individuals: The sheriffs of Nottingham and trial Cardiffs
Come from a long vein of brimstone and wood previously described as heartless
Is it a crime to smile at miles of carnage with a side of chipotle?
Taking pride in the launch of the first ever Irish safari? I wonder
Mixtures of folk songs reverberate in a surface of slithering toad spawns
I'm getting seasick from being in this polluted river for so long
Windswept in tenure, the farmhouse descendant of an inbred contender
My calculus teacher pieces back the remnants of a shipwreck together
Machine smoke drifts through the cogs and gears
Viking war horn to a throbbing ear on this Copenhagen pier
They claim they've been speaking with the agricultural gods for years
Don't coat what's not sweet - it's known candy disintegrates
At Fahrenheit 451, torching dust covered books mites can't even infiltrate
At the post office, banshees assimilated until the courier's baled
We all realized that tomorrow's rope bridges needed sturdier nails
It's early as hell. Pronouncing the vowel in a certain way -
It's early in hell, as Jack the Ripper wields a scalpel but prefers the blade
Another soul search in May, the same day King George founded castle states
His people connected facades and witnessed vast storm clouds evaporate
Don Quixote carved time fables out of dry maple bar stools -
First it was raining swordfish, scallywags and now brie bagel monsoons
Before we heard the full story we knew it was man - after all, a beautiful plan
"But we can do with subtle alterations..." says a warlord of the pharmaceutical clan

Black D.

birds flying high, know how i feel .. invincible,
city life is criminal, the old traditions collapsed
foundation shaky at best, yet, we're still bridging the gaps
wind at our backs, high road to babylonian skies;
crew's been polarized since that night napoleon died,
half marxist anarchists, die hard socialists minds
the rest just hope their zodiacs will show them a sign.
souls never die. here they help to power the centrifuge,
until the last hope and dream become a powdery residue.
airborne castlevania, torture victims found here are set in groups
so almost every resident is bound to be deaf or mute ..
crooked kingdom, rotten apple brown as a peasant's fruit
no surprise that 3 of our 4 towers are destitute.
leather suits, treasured jewels in radiant palaces
navigating expansiveness, hands free praying to pacifists
silk kimono emperors, rice wine waving in chalices
titanium abacus, demonstrates advancing stages of calculus;
arcadian talismans document our vertical shift,
fingertips carried currents when our circuits were snipped,
these merciless drifts will lead us to the perfect eclipse,
on a quest to figure out who gave the serpent it's hiss.

Half Wit It

We're harnessing energy to start building the past.
Dark feelings lead to spitting giving the Darjeeling its tracks.
Our scarred kin bleed, while many are chilling, relaxed.
I'm confident that it's hard living with rats, diseased..
At least these roaches had the common sense to adapt. Indeed.
^Besides why concur?..
Cause I just decided I'd like to try to work with the idea of life reversed since
I'd rather take pride in Earth then die her curse hence the writer's burden.
Unrivaled wording, a fire encircles me
Herb's nurtured for a convert the heat.
Confirm your needs and master self's nature.
Though I'm brave weren't lager's made to accelerate nerves!?
We float adrift over oceanic bodies..
Salaam's what the psalms read..
I'm slapped awake by open-handed palms lost in the quran's critique.
Crickets squeak, lips burned by liquid cheese.
Kids get deceived when the illiterate teach.
When war's aura's pristine the horror theme provokes sin.
But at the core of things it's no more than a form of poetry in motion.
The makings of a masterpiece, perhaps? Plastered scenes.
Fighting to the death for treasure which proves that blacks were kings.
Africa grieves, bleeding lavender as we laugh at her weakening.
A massacre; disaster occurring - the last of her recent dreams..


Scarab Lord Aaron George once told a beggar in the streets..
That the legend of the fleet was that the ledger was complete.
“A treasure lies beneath… ” were the words solemnly claimed,
As the olive tree swayed in the desert hive of Greece.
So if you ever try to scream - just remember the oracle’s voice;
And keep each swordedfish orifice sealed because oral’s a choice.
It’s the orca that’s moist which swims upon the sand-covered scrolls..
The demonic onyx orcs that rejoice in their abandonment homes.
It’s Lando the Drone, tadpoles in Rome, sandals and phones ..
Take one glance, suntranced and see that Stratholme’s a clone.
It’s no more, blowtorch to the afterlife of humanity..
As skirmisher worshipers climb the walls into endless miles of gravity.
The height goes on forever and ever.. and ever and ever.
So if you’re ever for ever — there’s no place to measure it better..
Pleasure is never gained, oxide hotknife to your severed brain
It’s a Scourge world, corpse hurled at the Knights of the Ebonblade.
Death resides in pesticide, splice it in meadowed caves
Leave the fire with Everblaze, I never said to light it or ever blaze..
Take a trident and levitate to the skies and then celebrate,
You’ve reached Nirvana - and you didn’t have to die to have met Cobaine.
Forget the island that’s set ablaze, overrun the Isle of Tests..
Fire the 3peating heatseeking crossbows at the tide ‘til it’s left in flames.
Tribal age tidal waves castleside on the Westward gates,
It’s a test of faith - saddlehide alibi.. their title is Restless Blades title is Death’s Embrace.


There are stories untold in the spirit of ancient myth
Whose expressions relay emotions that remake the paints to mix
Perhaps an artist whose daydream made his patience drift
To someday mark an ancient translation writ
carved on a mosque steeped in bold fragrances.
Of kings vanquished, others tossed to their anguishes
Know its comes at a cost to praise the lost languages.
To deny the idea that death is an ancient trip
Try crossing the River Styx once the anchors slip.
Left ship wrecked and tossed on the banks to wait in mist
Abandoned for ages, enslaved by the lake to sit..
Immortality might cost you your agelessness.
Their savior crossed the black sand to sit and ponder life...
Some honored Christ, but don't understand why they're drawn to light.
but its the dawn, tonight. Death rides for the clock of Apollo
Where the shadowed man guides, and beasts walk while they follow.
He'd chased the tail of destiny, embraced the immensity
Of future past and present laced in one entity...
To live the dream endlessly or accept the End of things.
As Old king reflects on what the next step will bring
Words unspoken unheard, still unbroken and unnerved
As he lays on summers bed feeling the breathe of the sun burn
His final slumber would be a lid on the casket of truth
But felt pure pride that he'd die, and outlasted his youth.
So with the last breathe he drew, he said to his son...
The answer is You. Correct what I've done.


there's a story lurking here ask the phantoms who know
before the grabbing of souls after cannons explode
the famine was home before the dusk entered dawn
as the fields were colored red once the muskets were drawn
Just a cluster of pawns, we keep hustling on
to the orders of king lacking muscle and charm
with all the fussing withdrawn we do as we're told
this is the norm despite the points of view that we hold
Are all our opinions left to die when we leave em?
and are the answers killed before the questions can see em?
is it Church or State that deems them as heathen?
whose enemy of the state when we're all fighters for freedom?
liars were hired to feed em; the fiery leader
the righteous and preaching the guiders of people
but righter than neither...who burns first when igniting the ether?
such questions answered best by the wisest of speakers
who will die for the people, the ones fighting to feed you
certainly not the residers of steeples who deny us as equal
how dare they, when we grant the power to rule
yet they task us with taxes, a poverty tool
though this land is OUR property you'll be steadily fooled
into letting weak men use our backs as pedestals
In fact i bet its fueled by envious coals
fires rage sending us to achieve devious goals
the plan is to keep us from upheaving control
and taking back everything I believe that we're owed
if we are to be led to death let it be one of our own
Rise with me brothers let us proceed to the throne.



In : Rhymed Verses 

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