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There are three silhouettes in the dark

They are hunchback, rotten and cruel

Broken fingers are crooked as an arc

Crones are stretching them up to the moon

Empty eye holes are filthy and blind

Toothless mouths are tight-lipped and shut

They are pulling a black wooden coat

Through the narrow and lightless gut

Feel the pestilence’s sound

Grab a hook, sift the grain

Spill their blood on the ground

Take their life, leave them pain

In the recess of ravines

Which are cloaked in the stench

Dead are carried by ravens

To live out in the trench

Mispersuated and decrepit ship

With some ignorant spadones aboard

Burning down under sound of a whip

Kissing cross in the name of their Lord

They’ll be dead without leaving a mark

Singing masses and slitting their throats

There are three silhouettes in the dark

They are pulling a black wooden coat