The Court of the Crimson King

Song	The Court of the Crimson King
Artist	King Crimson
Album	Cirkus: The Young Person's Guide to King Crimson - Live

	作词 : Fripp, McDonald, Sinfield
	The dance of the puppets
	The rusted chains of prison moons
	Are shattered by the sun.
	I walk a road, horizons change
	The tournament's begun.
	The purple piper plays his tune,
	The choir softly sing;
	Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
	For the court of the crimson king.
	The keeper of the city keys
	Put shutters on the dreams.
	I wait outside the pilgrim's door
	With insufficient schemes.
	The black queen chants
	The funeral march,
	The cracked brass bells will ring;
	To summon back the fire witch
	To the court of the crimson king.
	The gardener plants an evergreen
	Whilst trampling on a flower.
	I chase the wind of a prism ship
	To taste the sweet and sour.
	The pattern　juggler lifts his hand;
	The orchestra begin.
	As slowly turns the grinding wheel
	In the court of the crimson king.
	On soft gray mornings widows cry
	The wise men share a joke;
	I run to grasp divining signs
	To satisfy the hoax.
	The yellow jester does not play
	But gentle pulls the strings
	And smiles as the puppets dance
	In the court of the crimson king.

	zuò cí : Fripp, McDonald, Sinfield
	The dance of the puppets
	The rusted chains of prison moons
	Are shattered by the sun.
	I walk a road, horizons change
	The tournament' s begun.
	The purple piper plays his tune,
	The choir softly sing
	Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
	For the court of the crimson king.
	The keeper of the city keys
	Put shutters on the dreams.
	I wait outside the pilgrim' s door
	With insufficient schemes.
	The black queen chants
	The funeral march,
	The cracked brass bells will ring
	To summon back the fire witch
	To the court of the crimson king.
	The gardener plants an evergreen
	Whilst trampling on a flower.
	I chase the wind of a prism ship
	To taste the sweet and sour.
	The pattern　 juggler lifts his hand
	The orchestra begin.
	As slowly turns the grinding wheel
	In the court of the crimson king.
	On soft gray mornings widows cry
	The wise men share a joke
	I run to grasp divining signs
	To satisfy the hoax.
	The yellow jester does not play
	But gentle pulls the strings
	And smiles as the puppets dance
	In the court of the crimson king.