A treacherous treason within a sorrow reason leaves only a broken heart and an empty quiver,
For it is in the mind of heathens and the dark of their seasons they find madness so blind that leaves them bitter,
But what said fury leaves a man abandoned and makes him hurry to the end of such a rapid tick?
Be that of the mad man's watch where stands no jury where the hounds of hell have scurried to the depths of what's left of this tragic trick,
Oh be the pain of such whisper of a dream that once kissed her this mad man's song of a bird once cherished,
This once gentle mister, now gone and disfigured, with what once a tale of romantic remission now left to just perish,
So be this wave through madness and pain where a man's withered soul is left as forgot,
That we see this rage as men become slaves, to the gallows of hell where we're left just to rot,
All through a treacherous treason within a sorrow reason that left only a broken heart and an empty quiver,
It is in the mind of our heathens and the dark of our season, we find madness so blind we stand and still miss her.