I come from days of old,

Of which stories are told,

I killed the hound in man,

To get to work on gods plan,

 

Now that witch is buried deep,

As Irish souls awaken from sleep,

For in this life I am not meek,

And my blood does not often leak,

 

For I am water to this land,

Purer than any man can stand,

I drink my old soul,

As Satan pays with coal,

 

No more shall the special ly sick,

While pigs ride a tide of evil thats sick,

And womens dreams are measured thick,

By alchol to smooth the wick,

 

Of a candle that burns inside,

The rotten bull, for which I died,

And all the men who lied and lied,

While my only sin was to have tried.