The cry of the weak
the song of the dead
the words that i seek have never been said
they're charred on a scroll that has never been read for the guard at the toll wields an axe made of lead
he looks like a troll and he knows where you've tread
he'll measure your soul and sever your head
the goods that i've stole
the buckets i've bled
he passed me his bowl and i broketh my bread.
the song of the dead
the words that i seek have never been said
they're charred on a scroll that has never been read for the guard at the toll wields an axe made of lead
he looks like a troll and he knows where you've tread
he'll measure your soul and sever your head
the goods that i've stole
the buckets i've bled
he passed me his bowl and i broketh my bread.
~Longshaft
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