Decorate our faces with the spoils of our wars,
decorate them endlessly, though satisfaction falls,
celebrate celebrity with pure unbridled joy,
dancing so religiously, this masquerading boy,

this boy whose smile relentlessly indulges passing few,
they'd say quixotic certainly, though certainty's askew,
for when their troubles burden them, their dance begins to stall,
this boy, the martyr, bears their burden - witness to it all,

bespoke his advocation lies beneath a meek appearance,
forbearing he endeavours on, despite their non-conveyance,
they'll never see among the rise and fall from hope and glory,
the undisclosed protagonist of their collective story.