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All men kill the thing they love |
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By all let this, by all let this be heard [x2] |
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I never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye |
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Upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky |
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And at every drifting cloud that went with sails of silver by |
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In Reading |
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Gaol by Reading town there is a pit of shame |
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And in it lies a wretched man eaten by teeth of flame |
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The man had killed the thing he loved |
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And so he had to die |
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All men kill the thing they love |
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By all let this, by all let this be heard |
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Some kill their love when they are young |
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And some when they are old |
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Some strangle with the hands of |
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Lust Some with the hands of |
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Gold The kindest use a knife, because |
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The dead so soon grow cold |
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And there, till |
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Christ call forth the dead, |
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In silence let him lie |
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No need to waste the foolish tear |
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Nor heave the windy sigh |
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The man had killed the thing he loved |
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And so he had to die |
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All men kill the thing they love |
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By all let this, by all let this be heard |
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All men kill the thing they love |
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By all let this, by all let this be heard |
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Some do it with a bitter look |
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Some with a flattering word |
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The coward does it with a kiss |
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The brave man with a sword |
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The man had killed the thing he loved |
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And so he had to die |
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All men kill the thing they love |
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By all let this, by all let this be heard |
