Conquerors

The die is cast, your ferry waits,
genuflect, your match is met,
like Charlemagne come to say the grace,
with Saxony to be razed: I haven't come to stay.

Conquerors lay before my turned thumb,
if I say pallbearers will march you off this earth:
it is done.

Mark me, a sign of the end comes,
there will be no threnody,
no four horsemen riding out,
just an unfurling of my black flag.