Over and far, under the crooked star the Bruce marches on his way. Many'a person will be killed, many'a a free thought will be quelled. Upon this character weare set, upon this Scot our countries met. Upon the racism we will sing, up his praises we will cling. We will cling to the false history of our past, forgetting the shady dealings as they are vast.
We forget we had a king, one who's praises the Bruce dared not sing. We forget his back they gladly stabbed, on the moment when Scotland was brutally had. Upon Scotland he turned his back, he dared not help unless it was to better his sack. So when you talk of the king, don't forget to sing. Sing about all the bad the bugger done, I wonder if he enjoyed inflicting the damage with fun. I wonder if he looked into the white of his fellow Scots eyes, when he order a whole generation to die. I wonder if he stared at the children so pure and good, then thought of them as nothing more but dog food.
But then I remember this is not our king, his praises we can refuse to sing. For his actions prove him to be nothing special, he is as common as the thousands of petals.