Children of The Well

I hear the children crying

at the bottom of the well.

In hot and chafing chains they march,

and journey into hell.

And on the misty hilltop starts

the ringing of the bell.

The children slowly change to creatures

of a wicked spell.

They snarl and growl and claw and bite

with every tolling knell.

A cloud of death surrounds them

with a rotten carrion smell.

To a pagan god they’re praying

to be free but they’re all staying.

Yes, I hear the children baying

at the bottom of the well.

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