Tainted it was

Tainted it was,
smeared with dry,
red, stinky blood.
Blood of his own father,
killed by a hand, hired.
Blood of his 4 brothers,
whose brutal murders, he conspired.

Tainted it was,
this gem adorned crown.
This sign of command, majesty,
that in thick gold was cast.

Tainted it was,
with irreversible, detestable sin.
But he wore it with pleasure,
himself as a king, he cast.

The seduction of power,
the attraction of rule,
the pleasure of sin,
had taken over at last.

He had crushed and risen,
to be the one, the strong.
It didnt matter if his means,
were most sinfully wrong.

Right he was,
for as victorious he emerged.
For the crown was thick gold,
no matter, how tainted it was.