I thought I was your Golden-Haired Boy,
But you went and found another and another and
Left me to die on the stable floor
Bloodied by the horse's hooves,
Covered in hay and horseshit,
Desperately calling out, being unheard;
Yet my Princess you remain,
Although I do not know by what right or reason,
Reason having gone long ago.
If my hair is golden still, it matters little;
The veil should fall by dawn.