Paroles de Cockatrice

Oh basilisk, oh cockatrice The prophet was a child of flesh Stolen from the family creche And hidden in the wilderness A statue on a steepletop The prophet's now a man of rock The hundred thousand in his flock Will gather underneath-a him Owen and I walk among the plots I'm guided by the slightest touch With his fingertips upon my neck I'm made to be a marionette He asks me how I'd rather go To burn in the fire or freeze with the snow Well I'd rather die painful and alone Than be a prophet turned to stone So: Owen, owen protect me From a life everlasting Owen, owen protect me From a life everlasting