Crack, the bell is unstrung, the doom begun,
The truest measure, the finest wherewithal
It was a mighty blow that would save us all.
And within the wellspring thus uncovered,
A lurking pit of nasty duress and pestilence
Covered a layer of Hell so musty that none,
None could ever hide from such a continence.
Oh woe, be the tide that outstrips the reach of Man
Of beast and the land besides, ‘pon which we tread.
Further to the beckoning hand, we lie furtive
Spiralling ever farther and farther, from the dead.
Thy angel, His eyes cast down, escapes our view
A time of sorrow, a moment of something less true.
It was a thing, this thing of desiccated hopes
And fried featureless frippery too harsh,
Too harsh by far to whisper with naught
But the hand of a winsome lass
Who, at the very least
Was trying to kick ass.
This song, will be sung
Again and again.
A quiet, sombre thing
With strength emanating.
There is a hole in my soul
Where a bell once hung.
It’s silent now, forever more
An empty place,