Pay no heed to the fool in the field so far and gray... 
with spies like the serpents underfoot and rodents. 
Legs of wood... burlap, canvas, belt and hood and 
screams like freezing rusty nails and stitches running 
through his neck.

There's straw in his brain and his clothing is stained 
with mice, small newts, and the perfectly maimed! Don't 
look under his hood in the place where he stood or 
you'll find yourself running from the rook in the wood!

Wind and leaves are rustling, turning, naked branches 
reaching, reaching... Taunted vigil, weeping on his 
stick... now he's bleeding. He can hear the pest and 
when it's gnawing through! Rope and rowan cast him when 
the raven flew! He can be the darkness in the trees and 
feel the hollow and then frighten children far too 
young for this winter. He can live and breathe and die 
and talk again! Always in the glade where dark and 
chill begin!

He stalks the patch at night and scratch... and fly!
Stepping lightly, tries so hard to stain... underneath!
And then crawls the dampened earth like fog... tasting 
blades!
And then falling back until he sleeps... screaming 
softly!

Brained and stained and perfectly maimed... under the 
hood where he stood in the wood... brained and stained 
and perfectly maimed... under the hood where he stood 
in the wood...