A shadow came to blot the sun
Oh woe, how Monday morning came undone
Come, gather, lend me ears
And I shall weave a tale of tears.
I speak of how a day may die
And how a hundred men may cry
For hopes of better times to come
For heroes' aid and swords to strum.
For deep inside the greatest castle
Hidden by the endless hassle,
There lived a fiend wearing a grin
Which cloaked a dire maw of vile sin.
A fiend so meek, if at first glanced,
That no one's fear would have advanced.
But deep below the mellow tree,
Often lies the wicked banshee.
And worst of all haunted the castle
As powerless, in wait, stood the vassal.
For under the curse he was, as well
Trapped within the witch's hell.
Most ravenous this beast became,
As years went on, always the same,
One day a week, the witch's toll,
Lest he who pass, should trade his soul.
But soon the hunger grew too much,
One day a week, in the fiend's clutch,
No longer quenched the thirst for dread
Which helped the witch keep herself fed.
So she brew up another tax,
To mold the fears to living wax.
Four times a season she demanded
A sacrifice to her be handed.
An offering of blood and sweat,
No soul ever to forget,
The meaning of their heart's twitch,
The culling, the season of the witch.
And so beware, you who dare tread
Upon the fears and spirits of the dead.
The shadow beckons you as well,
And none shall ever hear the yell.
And be of Monday what may be
I leave, at last, for you to see,
And act a snitch,
On which is witch...
Oh woe, how Monday morning came undone
Come, gather, lend me ears
And I shall weave a tale of tears.
I speak of how a day may die
And how a hundred men may cry
For hopes of better times to come
For heroes' aid and swords to strum.
For deep inside the greatest castle
Hidden by the endless hassle,
There lived a fiend wearing a grin
Which cloaked a dire maw of vile sin.
A fiend so meek, if at first glanced,
That no one's fear would have advanced.
But deep below the mellow tree,
Often lies the wicked banshee.
And worst of all haunted the castle
As powerless, in wait, stood the vassal.
For under the curse he was, as well
Trapped within the witch's hell.
Most ravenous this beast became,
As years went on, always the same,
One day a week, the witch's toll,
Lest he who pass, should trade his soul.
But soon the hunger grew too much,
One day a week, in the fiend's clutch,
No longer quenched the thirst for dread
Which helped the witch keep herself fed.
So she brew up another tax,
To mold the fears to living wax.
Four times a season she demanded
A sacrifice to her be handed.
An offering of blood and sweat,
No soul ever to forget,
The meaning of their heart's twitch,
The culling, the season of the witch.
And so beware, you who dare tread
Upon the fears and spirits of the dead.
The shadow beckons you as well,
And none shall ever hear the yell.
And be of Monday what may be
I leave, at last, for you to see,
And act a snitch,
On which is witch...
