Hush now, don’t say a word,
beware of the carrion bird.
Its mournful song to sing
and piercing scream ring.
A cold blade of brass; bony
fingers clutch an hourglass.
A life wretched and broke
snuffed with sputtering choke.
To fire and cold it pulls,
in the blaze of a brazen bull.
When the flame’s out and done
see the setting of the sun,
when the great hound bays,
a procession to the ground lays
a wooden box, lowered down for
you to sleep below the town.