A wool-black night plays tricks on the mind,
keeps a shepherd's eye sewn to the treeline.
Every low-rolling fog and riled wild dog
draws a lamp-light knife across the fabric of dark.
My wealthy town sits on a tall grass mound
in a constant state of alarm.

Long before the town liar was born,
and the lamb lay dead, dead in our arms,
ours was the town that cried wolf.

Under smokestack clouds the rain pisses down,
washing out every whisper in town.
In the valley below, strangers come and go,
passing in the night with their lanterns lit bright.
Few clamber up the hill to our town after dark
for fear of getting shot.

Long before the town liar was born,
and the lamb lay dead, dead in our arms,
ours was the town that cried wolf.

The chapel bell rings when a wolf has been seen;
now even the sheep sleep through it.
A stray bullet here and an accident there:
small price for a little peace of mind.
We draw out our lines in unraveled barbed wire,
and the echo of our rifle fire.

Long before the town liar was born,
and the lamb lay dead, dead in our arms,
ours was the town that cried wolf.

---

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