O mighty Camelot, high are your walls.
A mountain heaping hot coals on your head.
Don’t wake the giant when anyone calls.
Who sleeps so restless, lies dead in your bed.
I drink like the wormwood, bitter it moans.
O mighty Camelot, closed are your doors.
A gift to your sin that rots at your bones.
A desperate hunger for which you wage wars.
But righteous He is Who sits on His throne.
He plucks me out from the net of my foes.
Your graven image; mirror that you own.
He guides my steps with mercy he bestows.
Your vanity is a calamity.
And He does laugh at its insanity.