---

The shadow of the Undertaker
creeps across your floor.
Go lock up all your children
And paint blood upon your door.

These hills are filled with whispers
Of a man all dressed in black
And the toll of death's now, He climbs from hell
To drag some poor soul back


That ol' bible speaks of angels
Doing service unto the lord
The Undertaker knows no master
He drinks from any cup poured.
Just as Banshees wail their warning
That someone that same day will die
The Undertaker, he states the same
I'll be goddamned if he tells a lie

Some falsely
say that whippoorwills
are the harbingers of death.
It's the Undertaker's murder of crows
that'll seize your living breath.
You'll see him riding into town
all dressed up like a tomb.
When you see him that eve on the outbound street,
you know some poor soul met their doom.

The Undertaker raises no hand,
But I'll fear him, just the same…
His presence pre-tells both blood and death,
Yet he shoulders
Not the blame.
Like the shadow of the vulture
Circlin' blackly overhead,
The Undertaker is drawn to death
Like a knife is drawn to red

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.