I fear that bead black eye That pierces me to the bone The cruel stare The glassy glare That fingers me alone. Too cunning for a bird Her mind is warped and crooked Again and worse Her voice is harsh And grates course and wicked.
And the masts of Morrigan Are strung across the world See the masts of Morrigan
An omen sour as gall She revels in our gore My skull her cup Drinks my blood up The one-eyed gimpy whore. She deals in the black arts Runs with the soldier and wolf The battle sounds Death rattle mourns She steals our eyes for herself.
