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The Court Of The Crimson King

In The Court Of The Crimson King(40th Anniversary Series Deluxe Edition)专辑

  • 作词 : Fripp, McDonald, Sinfield
    The dance of the puppets
    The rusted chains of prison moons
    Are shattered by the sun.
    I walk a road, horizons change
    The tournament's begun.
    The purple piper plays his tune,
    The choir softly sing;
    Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
    For the court of the crimson king.
    The keeper of the city keys
    Put shutters on the dreams.
    I wait outside the pilgrim's door
    With insufficient schemes.
    The black queen chants
    The funeral march,
    The cracked brass bells will ring;
    To summon back the fire witch
    To the court of the crimson king.
    The gardener plants an evergreen
    Whilst trampling on a flower.
    I chase the wind of a prism ship
    To taste the sweet and sour.
    The pattern　juggler lifts his hand;
    The orchestra begin.
    As slowly turns the grinding wheel
    In the court of the crimson king.
    On soft gray mornings widows cry
    The wise men share a joke;
    I run to grasp divining signs
    To satisfy the hoax.
    The yellow jester does not play
    But gentle pulls the strings
    And smiles as the puppets dance
    In the court of the crimson king.
  • 作词 : Fripp, McDonald, Sinfield
    The dance of the puppets
    The rusted chains of prison moons
    Are shattered by the sun.
    I walk a road, horizons change
    The tournament's begun.
    The purple piper plays his tune,
    The choir softly sing;
    Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
    For the court of the crimson king.
    The keeper of the city keys
    Put shutters on the dreams.
    I wait outside the pilgrim's door
    With insufficient schemes.
    The black queen chants
    The funeral march,
    The cracked brass bells will ring;
    To summon back the fire witch
    To the court of the crimson king.
    The gardener plants an evergreen
    Whilst trampling on a flower.
    I chase the wind of a prism ship
    To taste the sweet and sour.
    The pattern　juggler lifts his hand;
    The orchestra begin.
    As slowly turns the grinding wheel
    In the court of the crimson king.
    On soft gray mornings widows cry
    The wise men share a joke;
    I run to grasp divining signs
    To satisfy the hoax.
    The yellow jester does not play
    But gentle pulls the strings
    And smiles as the puppets dance
    In the court of the crimson king.

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