[INTRO] Abbey Lane... Brookhouse tavern... Nine o’clock... Tick. Tock. Tick. [VERSE 1] John Cooper pulls a silver face. Shows the room the time and place. Eleven stone boy in the corner seat. Watching hands, watching feet. John was tall, John was thick. Fourteen stone of heavy brick. Did a boy strike a giant dead? Or did he watch the blood turn red? Cold eyes tracking where the old man goes... Did you lead him out? Somebody knows. [PRE-CHORUS] Two silhouettes beside the hedge... A wooden stake... a jagged edge. "Don't thee split a word," he said. "Take the watch... he’s dead, he’s dead." Was it Denton’s strike or was it yours? Or two dark shadows on the moors? [CHORUS] JAMES! Did you swing the wood? JAMES! Did you stand where he stood? The watch in your pocket, the key in your head. Blood on your boots, or blood on his instead? Killer or thief... Sinner or ghost... Which version of you hurts the most? [VERSE 2] Seven shillings and sixpence split. A dark fake beard, a brutal hit. Denton’s name upon your tongue— A partner's guilt, or a lie you spun? Did you help him lift the stake? Did you kill for the silver's sake? You held the watch, you took the prize. Look into the cold grass... look into his eyes. Maybe you struck him, maybe you lied, Maybe you smiled when John Cooper died. [PRE-CHORUS] Two silhouettes beside the hedge... A wooden stake... a jagged edge. "Don't thee split a word," he said. "Take the watch... he’s dead, he’s dead." Was it Denton’s strike or was it yours? Or two dark shadows on the moors? [CHORUS] JAMES! Did you swing the wood? JAMES! Did you stand where he stood? The watch in your pocket, the key in your head. Blood on your boots, or blood on his instead? Killer or thief... Sinner or ghost... Which version of you hurts the most? [BRIDGE] No defense lawyer to speak your name. The jury calls it an easy game. George Denton walked in a coat of glass, Watching the boy down the gallows pass. September ten, eighteen sixty-four— Armley Gaol opens up the door. One hundred thousand pairs of eyes. Looking up at the morning skies. No confession, no final cry— Guilty or framed, you still had to die. [OUTRO] Was it your hand? Was it his? In the dark... Nobody knows what murder is. ...1864.
