Don't go. Don't step in the realm of black, white, grey.
Don't enter the twilight dawn, don't change your way.
Don't follow the black white sheep. Don't become
a herder.
Don't rearrange your soul to fit, don't wander any further.
Black for acts of sin. White for just their way. Grey for
those that watch not seeing, and wander back each day.
No! Don't go, don't walk with newsreel blinkers. Don't
talk in sugar shroud, or smile with plastic thinkers.
Don't listen to black white tic-toks. Don't begin
to run.
Don't wander to your post, their plan has just begun.
Black for acts of sin. White for just their way. Grey for
those that hear no
I care not for neon lights
or garish 'stylish' clothes t' buy,
I only want the sun t' shine
in fair o' pleasant England.
I care not for new Ipads
or nipping out to take a drag,
I only want t' grab a bag
and hike in my own England.
Plastic smiles and distant hugs
I think for now I've had enough,
I only want the land I love
the moors and woods of England.
Silver bark and golden leaves
Birds sing soar in autumn breeze,
I only want the grasses green
in glowing dusk of England.
Now I'm old and still I sigh
at admirals red and foxgloves high.
Yes, I feel there's no place like
my homey fields of England.
On the east-bounds o' red-rose shire,
there stands the Pendle Hill.
T'ween rivers Ribble and Hudder,
wind-swept moors standing still.
Walled by the druid stones and wary
hedgerows, Irish sea gales whisper and
moan. For devil soul'd men o' earth
tramp the trails alone.
Demdike and Device, Redferne and Whittle.
Those crones and their blood kin
care for nought, old hearts brittle.
Across the dark old Pendle Hill
They scurry'd and swarm'd. To fear'd Malkins
Tower, Pendle Forests black soul.
Brave Nicholas and Nowell, hid 'mongst
the tall trees, unseen by the Coven
who plotted dark deeds. They led
local men held by fear and thrall,
Captur