[Intro, low, rough, half-spoken like a tavern keeper starting an old favorite] Come in, then. Shut the door, wipe your boots. No blood on my floor, no blades on my tables. Drink first. Talk second. That’s the way of the Cog. [Verse 1, steady folk-rock rhythm, warm and gravelly] There’s a gear above the doorway, old iron, black and scarred, Pulled from a hunter’s engine that worked the Void too hard, And a tankard welded to it, so every fool can see, This house belongs to working hands, to rum, and rain, and me. I was born in Dusk’s dark belly, where the chimneys choke the sky, Raised on smoke and harbor curses and the gulls that always cry, Took the black run out for leviathans, learned the ropes and learned the strain, How to hold a busted engine while the deck ran slick with pain. [Pre-Chorus, softer, reflective] The sea takes men by handfuls, lad, And sometimes leaves one standing, sad, So I came ashore with bitter breath And built a place to bargain with death. [Chorus, big, singable, tavern-crowd friendly] Raise the cup, boys, raise it high, For the ones who sank beneath the sky, For the smugglers, thieves, and the souls half-gone, For the tired who still drag themselves along. No kings in here, no law but peace, Set your grudges down, let the fighting cease, At the Cog, at the Cog, where the hard hearts stop, And a man gets mercy in a battered mug. [Verse 2, fuller, with more swagger and room-noise energy] Six Towers knows my doorway, though I never hung a name, Just the cog and welded tankard, and that’s enough for fame, Crews come through with wet coats steaming, secrets tucked behind their teeth, All of them owing someone coin, all of them hiding grief. No crooked work across my tables, no ambush in my hall, No debt gets paid in broken jaws, no bodies by the wall, You wanna move your whispered cargo? Fine. You wanna make a deal? Fine. But in my house you keep it civil, and you drink before you whine. [Pre-Chorus, wry, affectionate toward the scoundrels] They call me old, they call me slow, But every hungry fool I know Still comes around when rain runs black To warm their bones and get some backbone back. [Chorus, stronger, rowdy tavern harmony] Raise the cup, boys, raise it high, For the ones who sank beneath the sky, For the smugglers, thieves, and the souls half-gone, For the tired who still drag themselves along. No kings in here, no law but peace, Set your grudges down, let the fighting cease, At the Cog, at the Cog, where the hard hearts stop, And a man gets mercy in a battered mug. [Bridge, slower, emotional, quieter instrumentation] Had a brother once… worked the line by my side, Salt in his beard and the black tide in his eyes, One bad run and the sea took his name, Left me the silence and the furnace flame. So if I pour one extra, if I watch the door too long, If I go still when the old ship engines groan in someone’s song, Leave it be. We all got ghosts. Mine just smell like storm and smoke. [Breakdown, almost a cappella, intimate, like the whole tavern joins softly] No blood on my floor. No knives in the dark. Drink while the lamp still burns. Speak while you’ve still got a voice. [Final Chorus, biggest, communal, stomping rhythm] Raise the cup, boys, raise it high, For the ones who sank beneath the sky, For the smugglers, thieves, and the souls half-gone, For the damned who still keep carrying on. No kings in here, no law but peace, Set your grudges down, let the fighting cease, At the Cog, at the Cog, where the lost folk stop, And the night feels small round a battered mug. [Outro, warm, gravelly, fading with tavern ambience] So pull up a chair. Mind your temper. Pay what you owe. And if you’ve nowhere else to crawl tonight… The Cog’s still open.
