Shrine of The Crows - The Altar Beneath The Water

There’s an altar beneath the water, Built from bones and blackened prayer. The cypress hums like a dying father, And the roots pull tight on every care. The moon’s a nail in the night’s own coffin, Hammered in by the devil’s hand. I been baptized in gasoline laughter, And the match won’t understand. Oh, the river don’t forgive, it only feeds, Where the crow calls down what the sinner needs. My soul’s been sold on a crooked reed, To the altar beneath the water. There’s a woman in the fog, she’s singin’ slow, Voice made of whiskey, mud, and woe. She said, “Son, you don’t pray to be saved, You pray that the swamp remembers your grave.” The harmonica cries, the lantern shakes, Every breath I take the water takes. If redemption’s real, I hope it drowns, ‘Cause I’m tired of heaven turnin’ me down. Oh, the river don’t forgive, it only feeds, Where the crow calls down what the sinner needs. My soul’s been sold on a crooked reed, To the altar beneath the water. Roots in my throat, mud in my chest, She said “Sleep, boy—let the bog do the rest.” The reeds hum hymns, the night bleeds red, And the water keeps count of the words I said. Oh, the river don’t forgive, it only feeds, Where the crow calls down what the sinner needs. My soul’s been sold on a crooked reed, To the altar beneath the water. So bury my harp where the cattails moan, Let the crows pick what’s left of the bone. I’ll play one more tune before I’m gone, For the ghosts that taught me wrong.