I Am The Cannon King, Behold!

I Perish On A Throne Of Gold.

With Forest Far And Turret High,

Renowned And Rajah-rich Am I.

My Father Was And His Before,

With Wealth We Owe To War On War;

But Let No Potentate Be Proud...

There Are No Pockets In A Shroud.



By Nature I Am Mild And Kind,

To Gentleness And Ruth Inclined;

And Though The Pheasants Over-run

My Woods, I Will Not Touch A Gun.

Yet While Each Monster That I Forge

Thunders Destruction From Its Gorge.

Death's Whisper Is, I Vow, More Loud...

There Are No Pockets In A Shroud.



My Time Is Short, My Ships At Sea

Already Seem Like Ghosts To Me

My Millions Mock Me, I Am Poor

As Any Beggar At My Door.

My Vast Dominion I Resign,

Six Feet Of Earth To Claim As Mine,

Brooding With Shoulders Bid Bitter-bowed

...There Are No Pockets In A Shroud.



Dear God, Let Me Purge Pure My Heart,

And Be Of Heaven's Hope A Part!

Flinging My Fortune's Foul Increase

To Fight For Pity, Love And Peace.

Oh That I Could With Healing Fare,

And Pledged To Poverty And Prayer

Cry High Above The Cringing Crowd...

"Ye Fools! Be Not By Mammon Cowed...

There Are No Pockets In A Shroud."