He stands before the golden throne in chains,
his heart a broken, bleeding, calloused thing,
but they will never truly know his pain.
This prince of ice has learned to fool a king.

A traitor, madman, he's destroyed the worlds
that plagued his nightmares, shattered all his dreams
and left him falling as the cosmos swirled,
an empty, cold finale to his schemes.

He knows that they believe that he has lost –
that all his twisted plans have come to naught –
but he's called god of mischief, made of frost.
They'll have to kill him before he'll be caught.

Now, with a grin, he enters his new cage.
He's not done yet. He whispers, "Trust my rage."