Our hair is sometimes purple sometimes white.
Blood quickened red as flags with joyful rage
Skeleton horses ride that died of age
We rise again. Submit to that old fight
We lost before. The giants are still there
They told us they were windmills and we heard
Creaking that lulled us years content we purred
Despaired perhaps a little. We still care.
Stories come true again. Nothing to lose
But stories. At our head open neck grey
Scruff beard we knew we'd find our knight one day
If madness it is madness not to choose.
We are Quixote's army. This or bed
That we helped make. In which the world is dead.