In a papered house
the lights are going down.
In blissful ignorance the king
makes a hash of repairing
his papier mache crown.

The treasure in his grasp
the part he was born to play,
have led him up the garden path
with his hopes and his broken heart shown on open display.

He doesn't understand,
they'll never let the talent know
that the shaking in his hand
is a sign-off: goodbye and not hello.

So much for awareness
of the crooked nature of the deal.
In a papered house there's no big reveal.

He doesn't understand,
so much he'd rather not know,
but he caught a glimpse of the seating plan
and so the story's blown.

Grandees and groundlings, they've seen it all before
and there's no sense of romance left at the artists' door.
Anagnorisis,
it's all given away;
in a papered house
there's hell to pay.