“When I was a fighting man, the kettle drums they beat
The people scattered gold dust before my horse’s feet.
But now I am a great king, the people hound my track
With poison in my wine cup, and daggers at my back.” ^[1]

“Gleaming shell of an outworn lie, fable of Right divine
You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood was the price of mine.
The throne that I won by blood and sweat, by Crom, I will not sell
For promise of valleys filled with gold, or threat of the Halls of Hell.” ^[2]

“What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft, and the lie
I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky.
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing
Rush in and die, dogs – I was a man before I was a king.” ^[1]

This is helping me a lot right now, because I’m growing tired of being told what to do.