mwoodman
Settling in Altera
To the tune of...
And who are you, the proud mob said,
that we must bow so low?
Only a tyrant of a different cloak,
that's all the truth I know.
In a cloak of silver or coat of mail,
Across Cromarky shores,
Our knives are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so they spoke, and so they spoke,
to Inquisitors so near,
And now the rains weep on Cathedral hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er Cathedral hall,
and not a soul to hear.
And who are you, the proud mob said,
that we must bow so low?
Only a tyrant of a different cloak,
that's all the truth I know.
In a cloak of silver or coat of mail,
Across Cromarky shores,
Our knives are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so they spoke, and so they spoke,
to Inquisitors so near,
And now the rains weep on Cathedral hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er Cathedral hall,
and not a soul to hear.