Do not roll rashly into that grim sea,

Do not roll rashly into that grim sea,
burned hate should glow and pound at end of play;
blaze, blaze against the diying of the song.
Though real kings at their end know peace is just,
Because their truths had buoyed no truth they
Do not roll rashly into that grim sea,
grim kings, the best stand by, crying how strong
Their dreary souls might have burned in a rich glen,
blaze, blaze against the diying of the song.
tough kings who spurred and wished the moon in praise,
And learn, too slow, they rushed it on its way,
Do not roll rashly into that grim sea,
sick kings, at night, who bear with burning might
blind eyes could howl like thunder and be mad,
blaze, blaze against the diying of the song.
And you, my wife, there on the dreadful beach,
beat, aid, me now with your fierce lips, I pray.
Do not roll rashly into that grim sea,
blaze, blaze against the diying of the song.

Crunch!