Song 0.4

Born beneath the steeple and raised up in the shack
Played out on the street on the dusty tarmac
In winter the old chimney would mutter and crack
Our faces smeared with soot like a panic attack

The people in the church would bold and loudly pray
Sneer at us across the street and in the alleyway
Grew into a man despite the jeers and the dismay
Found work as a carpenter and so I plied my trade

And the river is rising
The wind reeks of blood
The hanging tree bows
As you’re dragged through the mud
Cut sideways and upwards
Through flower and bud
But the wounds that cut most
Are those fashioned from love

Made good and met a pretty girl – built a house and fenced the yard
Found and then lost on the turn of a card
Life was never easy, oh lord but it was hard
The hatred of the townsfolk left us always on our guard

My wife was so pretty and so kind and so sweet
The whisperers said she should do better than me
Fingers point in our direction in the stores and on the street
Thinking they were more than us in all of their conceit

And the river is rising
The wind reeks of blood
The hanging tree bows
As you’re dragged through the mud
Cut sideways and upwards
Through flower and bud
But the wounds that cut most
Are those fashioned from love

They came for us one evening in the sleet and the snow
Screamed we didn’t quite fit in and their screaming turned to blows
Then they lit the fires and our house was aglow
And they took down my pretty wife and left her for the crows

Many hours later I came back around
Heard the fire still crackling such an awful sound
Wept at what had happened but now I’m honour bound
To seek revenge on all in this terrible town

And the river is rising
The wind reeks of blood
The hanging tree bows
As you’re dragged through the mud
Cut sideways and upwards
Through flower and bud
But the wounds that cut most
Are those fashioned from love

I’m seeking my revenge so bitter and strong
Nothing but this hate to keep my heart strong
Stand up the threat of the menacing throng
Ain’t nothing but a spectator to my own song

I love her now as I loved her then
Ain’t nothing left inside in this sorrowed glen
I’ll let you die running, count to ten
Basted in angels blood, bands of men

And the river is rising
The wind reeks of blood
The hanging tree bows
As you’re dragged through the mud
Cut sideways and upwards
Through flower and bud
But the wounds that cut most
Are those fashioned from love

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