|
The morning sun beam |
|
Finds a man in black |
|
With a cruel face |
|
No marks of grace |
|
The tools of his trade |
|
Seem scary on the back |
|
Against the wall |
|
He uses them all |
|
Seeing him makes grown men weep |
|
The eyes of him bear flesh decree |
|
And his axe puts men to sleep |
|
Eternal |
|
Doomed in line |
|
Waiting for the call |
|
Staring at the traces of blood all around |
|
Their lined faces |
|
Hearing the sound of that |
|
Man's head dropping to the floor |
|
Falling axe |
|
Sprays blood on the wall |
|
Another head to the top of the mound |
|
Quiet whining |
|
Echoes from the walls |
|
The last words before the blood pours |
|
Master of his craft |
|
Everybody's scared |
|
To use his skill |
|
It is the kill |
|
In the solitude lives |
|
Because no one dared |
|
To be with him |
|
His name is grim |
|
Seeing him makes grown men weep |
|
The eyes of him bear flesh decree |
|
And his axe puts men to sleep |
|
Eternal |
|
Doomed in line |
|
Waiting for the call |
|
Staring at the traces of blood all around |
|
Their lined faces |
|
Hearing the sound of that |
|
Man's head dropping to the floor |
|
Falling axe |
|
Sprays blood on the wall |
|
Another head to the top of the mound |
|
Quiet whining |
|
Echoes from the walls |
|
The last words before the blood pours |
