"Thanks, Dookie, but my sister is right. I'm inexperienced in the ways of romance..." "I was entrusted with the blade Excalibur... and a sacred quest..." [INTRO] The wind was sharp, the stew was thin, The fire low and mean. Twelve travelers sat on stony ground With not much left between. A soldier told of burning ships, A crone of dreams deluge— Then Brother Holt uncrossed his legs And sang of Gethwick’s refuge. [CHORUS] We pass the tale to mark the mile, To warm the dark, to rest awhile. We share the lies we need to keep— And trade them back before we sleep. [VERSE 1] He walks to Gethwick's holy gate, Where silence crowns the day. The monks there wake with open palms And wash their sins away. They wear no rings, their vows are sealed, Their discipline well known. Their lives are clean, their thoughts are pure, And none need walk alone. [CHORUS] We pass the tale to mark the mile, To warm the dark, to rest awhile. We share the lies we need to keep— And trade them back before we sleep. [VERSE 2] They eat one meal at eventide, And speak in careful turns. They do not flinch from thorn or flame— Through pain, the spirit learns. They keep no gold, they fear no knife, They suffer without pride. And those who knock are shaved and bathed And gently purified. [CHORUS] We pass the tale to mark the mile, To warm the dark, to rest awhile. We share the lies we need to keep— And trade them back before we sleep. [BRIDGE] I hadn’t spoken all this night, Just watched the fire breathe. Spotted hyena in blackened leather, Golden hair that caught the breeze. Then up I stood and said just this: “You’ve never seen them, have you?” [VERSE 3] They boil their faces, the Gethwick monks, And chant with mouths sewn shut. They flense the skin from pilgrims’ backs And hang it up to cut. They keep their blades in incense jars, Their hooks hang wet from butcher racks— And children weep beneath the floor, Their mothers bound in canvas sacks. They seal the eyes with tar-black thread, To snuff the spark of burning skies. They shear the ears, raw muscle bared, So whispered truths can’t breach their lies. I’ve burned six cloisters just like this— Their kind are all alike. I go to Gethwick not to pray— But to stack their heads in a sea of pikes! [FINAL CHORUS] We pass the tale to mark the mile, To warm the dark, to rest awhile. But some truths burn too hard to keep— So leave them here, and try to sleep. "There are hundreds of these blighted monasteries... but I swear to you... I will cleanse them all."
