Shrine of The Crows - Bog Witch Gospel

Smoke from the swamp curls under my tongue, I was born where the dead still hum. Moss in my lungs, mud in my prayer, Ain’t no heaven gonna find me there. The river sings in a fever dream, Calls my blood with a ghostly scream. Her eyes are pearls drowned in tar, She hums my name on a broken guitar. Oh, the bog witch’s gospel rolls low, Through the reeds where no man should go. Her hymn crawls cold through the marrow and rain, She’s whisperin’ worms in my brain. She gave me a kiss made of graveyard wine, Told me the end was a holy sign. Her hair like kelp, her breath like rust, Every word turned bone to dust. I saw my reflection in her mire-born face, It smiled back with a stranger’s grace. Now I walk with shadows, barefoot and blind, Singin’ the song she left behind. Oh, the bog witch’s gospel rolls low, Through the reeds where no man should go. Her hymn crawls cold through the marrow and rain, She’s whisperin’ worms in my brain. The frogs croak amen to the storm, Roots twist like veins in the earth’s deformed form. Something ancient hums in the mire’s black throat, And I sink deeper with every note. Now I breathe where no breath belongs, Singin’ her death in a thousand songs. She hums through me, that fetid grace, The bog witch wears my borrowed face. Oh, the bog witch’s gospel rolls low, Through the reeds where no man should go. Her hymn crawls cold through the marrow and rain, She’s whisperin’ worms in my brain. So if you hear a harmonica cry, From the fog where no light can lie, Don’t look that way, don’t say that name, The bog which gospel’s done took my flame.