Where the plague has scourged no crops will grow,
Even ravens feed from the gallows pole,
A fallow land bled by civil war,
Where all are prey to the inquisitor.
He comes to carve to cure the beast,
With the burning zeal of a perverted priest,
His pageant like a funeral cortage,
Heralding a grim and new dark age.
From the churchyard to the village square,
Where the priest intones a mocking prayer,
Innocents are dragged screaming through the streets,
To teed the flames and Puritan conceit.