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 their flesh to creep And his axe puts them 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 the Mans 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 scare His gloomy skill It is to kill In solitude lives he Because no one dare To be with him His name is grim Seeing him makes grown men weep The eyes of him their flesh to creep And his axe puts them 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 the Mans 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
axe, wall, whining, blood, spray