My blade is not as keen as in the past
When mighty oaks would fall with just a swing.
A sharpened edge is frail and never lasts -
Not ev'ry prince will rise to be a king.
The serpents often flew above my head,
But fire turned to ice around my sword.
Alas! it burns and smothers me instead -
I cower from the heat upon the floor.
No longer do I try and fell the trees;
A tragic sort of truth has dawned on me:
That fairy dust is taken by the breeze
And happiness is diced by misery.
Enjoy the blade that carves a clearer mind
Before the rainbow's end is left behind.