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There is a song of an ancient king,
and his astounding performers.
It is a song bards are afraid to sing
A song written by mourners.

The king did prosper and gain renown,
For he owned the worlds greatest show.
But what happened when the curtains went down,
No one, quite, did know.

At night within the darkened tent,
With demons, did mortals lay.
From the demons were powers lent
And then they’d leave before the day.

At day people would laugh at the freaks
The circus would simply smile
Awaiting their night of shrieks,
It would only be a while.

One day the king, he made a bet
That his acrobats could fly,
Across three rings with no nets.
This caused one of them to die.

The king was forced to pay his boasts
But this is the least of his woes
The demons were angry as were their hosts
And were now his sworn foes.

On a night with no moon above,
The circus rose to arms.
Showing no mercy, no quarter, no love
They burned the kingdom’s, homes and farms.

From the grounds of this medieval fair,
Came darkness like a flood.
Screams of the victims filled the air,
While others drowned in blood

Not till morn did mercy arrive
Paladins from another land
Found only the performers alive
So this circus did disband.

The gypsies were forced to pay for their crimes
For having, with demons, lain.
So it was in these dark times,
Even women and children were slain.

To this day there is a fear,
And it is often said,
Whenever a circus draws near
“How are they sure all the fiends were dead?”