Ugly old crone on the outskirts of town Kept to herself in her ramshackle hut
Living off of alms Pennies for herbs, potions and poultices Maybe arcane arts fueled her talents But she never harmed a soul
Nobody paid much mind to Ol' Moll Dyer But then fortunes turned to ash
A plague of flu on funeral winds Livestock met the reaper in droves Then one February night Lightning rent snow-driven clouds
A heap of empty beer mugs Littered the alms-house tables " 'Tis that old witch's fault, this" The storm had finally burst the dam
Torches, pitchforks, axes and rope There'd soon be hell to pay Hut went up in a blaze of righteousness Ol' Moll fled the flames, into the frozen wood
Trudging through the snow, she collapsed upon a stone As the icy grip of death wrapped its fingers 'round her heart She held one hand aloft, fist raised to the sky in rage Calling up old black magicks that she'd learned but never used Miasma of misfortune swept through the cursed town Still Moll Dyer's rock holds the image of her frozen, dying handTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
