Pay no heed to the fool in the field so far and gray... with spies like the serpents underfoot and rodents. Legs of wood... burlap, canvas, belt and hood and screams like freezing rusty nails and stitches running through his neck.
There's straw in his brain and his clothing is stained with mice, small newts, and the perfectly maimed! Don't look under his hood in the place where he stood or you'll find yourself running from the rook in the wood!
Wind and leaves are rustling, turning, naked branches reaching, reaching... Taunted vigil, weeping on his stick... now he's bleeding. He can hear the pest and when it's gnawing through! Rope and rowan cast him when the raven flew! He can be the darkness in the trees and feel the hollow and then frighten children far too young for this winter. He can live and breathe and die and talk again! Always in the glade where dark and chill begin!
He stalks the patch at night and scratch... and fly!
Stepping lightly, tries so hard to stain... underneath!
And then crawls the dampened earth like fog... tasting blades!
And then falling back until he sleeps... screaming softly!
Brained and stained and perfectly maimed... under the hood where he stood in the wood... brained and stained and perfectly maimed... under the hood where he stood in the wood...