Leonheart sits on high, his throne of corruptive lies, looking down at what he sees as his prize, a gift of greed.

His three wives, all gone and dead, their cause of death, none knew, no one said.

"The third wife has passed away, For younger desires 'twas too late, her place is yours, you see, 'tis spot of anguish and these fees."

Marrying the king, so strange a fate, A prison of lies and blood to consecrate. To think a blind act is all one can do, in fear of being trapped in it.