In the deep ravine where the fog is still, Stands a giant shadow — the old gray mill. The stones are growling, the gears are tight, Though no wind has blown for a hundred nights! The Pale Miller, covered in white dust, Waiting for a traveler to satisfy his lust! The door is creaking — come in, my lad! I have some jelly to make you glad. "Eat my white bread, don't be shy, my guest, Just don't look at the bags where the shadows rest!" In those sacks, it’s not rye or grain — It’s the clicking joints of those lost in pain! Crunch! (Crunch!) The mill is grinding bones! White... (White...) The snow covers the stones! Taste the bread — and you’ll turn to clay, The mill will grind your soul away! One little bite — and you’re cold as ice, The Miller’s blade is the only price! Fingers turn white, skin turns to dust, Into the vat — for the golden crust! Tomorrow they’ll bake a pie in the town, To put every villager six feet down! "Grind, my beauty, grind them small... Not a grain of wheat inside this wall! You were a traveler — now you’re a loaf, Open your mouth, you silly oaf!"
