Lord made of silver, your shine blinds the sun.

It bends the people to your will,

Past the point where the day is done.

And your shine shames gold.

Lord made of silver, you stare ever down.

Your gaze falls on our people,

And your power abounds.

Your shine shames gold.

Lord made of silver, in your cloud covered palace.

Reaching your influence around the world,

Its prosperity your chalice.

Your shine shames gold.

Lord made of silver, as you float to Earth.

We kneel in your presence,

And fear not our rebirth.

Your shine truly shames gold.

Lord made of silver, you strengthen your hold.

We wear holy chains,

And face servitude never told.

Your unending shine shames gold.

Lord made of silver, your kingdom rules all.

A long-lasting bastion,

It protects itself from fall.

Your unbested shine shames the gold.

Lord made of silver, you know your citizens true.

Your bright hand cradles us,

And hides the sky blue.

Your shine is the only light, and it shames gold.

Lord made of silver, we move below ground.

Your gracious hand pushes,

And rebellion shan’t make a sound.

Your shine brightens and shames the gold.

Lord made of silver, as we work the dark mine,

We hear working rumbles,

Yet stay forever in line.

Your shameful shine engulfs gold.

Lord made of silver, you’ve demanded we assist.

A rebel of gold has arose,

And you say he’s on your list.

And your shine shall make a fool of the gold.

Yet, Lord made of silver, did you not predict compliance?

A world in complete harmony,

Bound by alliance?

Can your shine truly best gold?

Bright Lord of Silver, we must find out.

Do you hold our best wishes in mind,

Or have we placed well our doubt?

Does gold escape your shine?

Bright Lord of Silver, we will choose truth complete.

We side with gold,

And leave your “elite.”

A golden light bathes us all.

Lord made of silver, we threaten your reign.

We march through the tunnels,

Into what was once our plane.

We anticipate a golden age.

Lord made of silver, in your last, withering week,

We ask, simply:

Do you still hold hope in a situation so meek?

Our gold laughs in your face.

Pretender made of silver, you’ve fallen first, today.

No one wished to mourn you,

At the grave in which you lay.

Nothing more could be expected.

This forces the question, hallowed King Formed of Gold:

Will you fit the caliber of the Lord of Old?

Actually, why should we ask?

You’ve said this many a time.

Your golden bloom does surpass platinum, does it not?