Bells of the Black Sunday

Down, down yonder, where the handle pans In bowls of dust And throats of sand. With stammer jaws and hands of gnaws and rust, They beg for a good old song like a Dog for crust. "Master, master, revive us a tale of the dandy Old harvester what unlived in the vale." "Oh please, won't ya, won't ya?" "Master, master, turn back the page where the land Was plum and green and we got shine and Wage. Yes, we got shine and wage." Shine and wage. Now, what do you think, children? Do you think They deserve shine and wage? Heed the story of the swallow and the other Birds, and the selfish and wicked harvester Who pillaged the grains and poisoned the plains till It drew from the bane of my vengeance. Fast from the highlands my twisting black roller Came howling. Blasting the papers in spirals of dust, Cloud, and sand. The wicked harvester emptied the Heavens, now broken and barren his land. After a fall, I lifted my winds out of Mercy. Generously, But country dogs lack common sense. The wicked harvester With seed bag went fixing to sow a further Offense. Oh, is my heart so forgiving. My kindness could swallow you whole. Pluck the seeds of evil by rake and by Fist, the spells of the black Sunday toll. Pluck the seeds of evil by rake and by Fist, the spells of the black Sunday toll. Seedling was sown by the plow where a flock Of birds nested. The wisest among them squawked, "Peck every seed from the soot. The wicked harvester will be of our ruin if These bitter morsels take root." Heedless, the little birds cackled and scoffed at Their elder. But seeds grew To fiber and braided the venomous net. The wicked harvester Captured the half-witted flock as they wept in Regret. Oh, is my heart so forgiving. My kindness could swallow you whole. Pluck the seeds of evil by rake and by Fist, the spells of the black Sunday toll. Pluck the seeds of evil by rake and by Fist, the-Ding, dang, Oh, is my song so Beguiling. These pipes, they could swallow you whole. Pluck the seeds of evil by rake and by Fist, the spells of the black Sunday toll. Pluck the seeds of evil by rake and by Fist, the spells of the black Sunday toll. Down, down, down come the winds. Round, round blows the dust. Black, black, black is the Sunday. Crash, crash went the hounds. Weep, weep, weep wailed the wife. Quack, quack, quack. Down, down, down come the winds. Round, round, round blows the dust. Black, black, black is the Sunday. Hallelujah. Crash, crash, went the hounds. Weep, weep, weep wailed the wife. Black, black, black is the Sunday. Hallelujah. Down, down, down come the winds. Round, round blows the dust. Black, black, black is the Sunday. Hallelujah. Black, black, black is the Sunday. Hallelujah. Hallelujah