LYRICS
by the swollen glade
down the marshy field
where childrens voices
heard among the bird cries
the cask of ale
and games of bowling
in the mountains
they did not speak
nor laugh
just the sound of pins
and glasses
the rifle rusted
the dog long dead
the cabin rotted
the clothing tattered
the frosty tankards quaff
by the mountain passes
they did not speak or laugh
the sound of pins and glasses
a large grey beard
would tear the axis
he was not feared
His name's Abraxis
what blade by hand
he doth forsooth
a piney end
a rabid tooth
and Tra Li La
and Tra Li Day
to dance and sing
the night away
come hither
you lass
and talk to the pins
and drink a glass
the market researcher ---[[[[ah bollocks
did shine
his eyes alight
the fear was gone
and soon the night
ignorant smiling
self congratulatory
dripping inane
the same old story
His hair is greased
his stupid round face
he fingers his vestments
and talks of his "place"
He bores his friends
they complain amongst
the piles of pins
they complain loudly
succour the stench
of learned drivel
your wisdom is naught
that I'd give a shitfull ]]]]]
by the swollen glade
by the marshy field
a broken rovers blade
a wound that would soon heal
and on and on the rover
passes
unto the edge
his narrow glasses
attracted
peered thru with eyes
all brown and
cataracted (hah!)
balthazar
strange brew of childe
foward thinking nights errand
lost at the faire
whence she was taken ill
the grey steed( ford fairlane)
known by many names
VYL or
)echofisk 3(
by chance the leather
coats were gone
the dead were grateful
In the land of winter
by the street of Geary
strange military watch
of cars already stolen
Bertha had been sung
and we complained
or she complaind
of stomach ailment
from sub harmonic
tones from the wizards
bass amp
the pins did fall
the glassed sounded
they stood once tall
and now resounded
to try the air
and play the lyre
it would be faire
but yet I fear
the empty air
of deathly night
I tried but where
I could not right
the falling standard
our lot was lost
the ensign ranted
we felt the frost
of grey cold morning
and springtime though
death is mourning
and life is slow
the marshy glade
the mountain passes
a game of pins
the sound of glasses
