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Oh basilisk, oh cockatrice |
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The prophet was a child of flesh |
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Stolen from the family creche |
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And hidden in the wilderness |
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A statue on a steepletop |
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The prophet's now a man of rock |
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The hundred thousand in his flock |
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Will gather underneath-a him |
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Owen and I walk among the plots |
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I'm guided by the slightest touch |
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With his fingertips upon my neck |
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I'm made to be a marionette |
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He asks me how I'd rather go |
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To burn in the fire or freeze with the snow |
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Well I'd rather die painful and alone |
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Than be a prophet turned to stone |
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So: Owen, Owen protect me |
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From a life everlasting |
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Owen, Owen protect me |
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From a life everlasting |
