Cockatrice

Oh basilisk, oh cockatrice

The prophet was a child of flesh

Stolen from the family creche

And hidden in the wilderness

A statue on a steepletop

The prophet's now a man of rock

And the hundred thousand in his flock

Will gather underneath of him

Owen and I walk among the plots

I'm guided by the slightest touch

With his fingertips upon my neck

I'm made to be a marionette

He asks me how I'd rather go

To burn in a fire, or freeze with the snow

Well, I'd rather die painful and alone

Than be a prophet turned to stone

So...

Owen, Owen protect me

From a life everlasting

Owen, Owen protect me

From a life everlasting