The curse of the prince is to see the treasure in his hands as nothing more, than the commonest trash As he crawls through the mud he imagines himself the heir to the throne resplindent in majesty, he awaits his bride And lo, as she rides down from her castle high on the hill, she takes great pity on his plight From her white mare, she extends a hand, feeds him and drapes him in royal clothes She falls deeply in love, promising her undying devotion How does he repay her? With a spit in the face, a slap, a yell He curses and bemoans her as worthless Because the curse of the fool, is to think he's a prince, who sees the treasure in his hands, as nothing more than the commonest trash