Burying the Dead - Eating the Rotten

[Verse 1:] The tenant farmer owes his body to the lord Seed corn turns green in the damp cottage store Bare feet in liquid clay, each step a little gasp He bakes the rotten grain, knowing it won't last Hope is gone, the furrows drown in grey No seed left, just the heavy squelch day after day [Chorus] Burying the dead in the standing water Eating the rotten, the field-kill, the slaughter The rain hammers down on the roof and the stone And the land takes back what we thought was our own [Verse 2:] We walked the ancient ridgeway, heads down in the gale Bark in our mouths and the nettles in our nails The dead lay by the ditch, the crows were blood fed No shroud, no bell, no prayer—just the rain in the red We fled the empty parish when the hunger broke the law A line of wandering ghosts that the village never saw [Chorus] Burying the dead in the standing water Eating the rotten, the field-kill, the slaughter The rain hammers down on the roof and the stone And the land takes back what we thought was our own [Verse 3:] The walls feel like a tomb, the gates won't hold the cry Wheat at forty shillings and the grain carts rolling dry The weaver in the city counts a silent, empty stall The baker cuts the flour with the dirt and pigeon-gall Inside the stone we wither, while the beggars claw the gate The market day is silent and the alleys smell of fate [Chorus] Burying the dead in the standing water Eating the rotten, the field-kill, the slaughter The rain hammers down on the roof and the stone And the land takes back what we thought was our own [Bridge] By the smoky hearth, a knight watches his ledgers thin Oxen down with murrain, and no coin brings harvest in No rents paid in the autumn, no labour for the yield The feudal bond is breaking in the muddy, drowned field He locks his massive barns against the people he should feed And watches status rot away before the face of need [Verse 4:] King Edward signs the parchment, a useless price decree To fix the cost of cattle that no eye will ever see On Saint Lawrence's day, his golden court is led To the empty halls of lost dreams, where there is no bread The parchment cannot dry the soil or make the oxen stand The crown sits on a head that has lost the grip of land The lord, the pawn, the king, all kneel to the same sky One world in the mud, and no spring in sight [Final Chorus] Burying the dead in the standing water Eating the rotten, the field-kill, the slaughter The rain hammers down on the roof and the stone And the land takes back what we thought was our own