(Salve, mortis, salve)
All rise ye who stand accused
For practice of the witches craft
Silent tongues that speak no truth
Continuing down the devil's path
Are ye guilty folk, inflected ill
Riding dead air unto the tomb?
Speak not, hear not as ye be
With one who cradles an abundant womb
Those who suffer, shall suffer no more
And the town shall be ridden of all witches lore
Hereby guilty and sentenced
To hang by noose
Amongst faith now
It be your lives you will loose
Pronounced excommunicate
To die with morning next
But unnoticed upon the judge
This night brings a wicked hex |
