Pouring rain and howling wind The elements are raging The nightly storm is bending trees Only ravens are out soaring The villagers are deadly frightened Sitting by their fire Wincing every lightnings strike But think of the watchman on the spire! They say the undead walk the woods Dreaded by these common men Bodies from their graves returning Risen through secret arts Were damned! They told me Master, the enemy walks Roaring like a lion, the hunter walks His fires burning to forge our demise Could it be that all things are coming to an end? The sun sure seems to be setting on all of women born But in this last stand, who is to stand on either side? They are all but wooden figures, moves made by no cunning man Checkmate thanks to the power hungry, doomed Alas, a part of HIS sordid plan Look to your left to join the hunt And learn of long forgotten lore Take wisdom with you to your grave Have no regrets Nevermore
walk, wincing, checkmate, watchman, villager