Hair grown like woods, riddled with witches. His eyes were only made for looking at the Priestess. Still the same buildings standing in place. Still the same roots growing up to his waist. She looks so good in her funeral gown, Better hurry up,'cause the hearse is going round. Still the same coffin that I left behind. Twenty-odd years, You don't need to remind me - that This pillar of salt used to be my wife. Could've been a queen. Could've had a life. She looks so good in her funeral gown, Better hurry up,'cause the hearse is going round. And I'm a patron of The Valley Below. I am the saints and the martyrs. I am the scum on death row. I used to be alive, but now I'm dead in a hole. They call me penniless scum. I even sold my soul. And the good people said: " You must have lost your head. You can't listen to the Priestess. Not a word that she's said." I used to be alive, but now I'm dead in a hole. They call me penniless scum. I even sold my soul. Priestess, oh could you take me home? I ain't nothing if I'm not a wary soul