There are some who are born distinguished
There are some who are raised in praise
But me I was always the last in line
blot in my father’s gaze
No cheekbones chiselled on a feline face
No skill or savvy with a sword
But this game we all play is won in wily ways
And sly is this littlest lord [bad word] tricks of romance
Degraded by their spite
You snub your cub too many times
You just might feel his bite…
Beware beware of the words I twist
I am small but my reach is long
And the ravens black against the winter’s mist
Are whispering the half-man’s song
Whispering the half man’s song…
The land is a blooming orchard
With [bad word] so juicy and ripe
With a clink of a coin loose the lion’s loin
Play a tune on the half man’s pipeIn the arms of a [bad word] I made a promise
Sinking deeper into danger every day
Cut through all their [bad word] with a brazen wit
Moulding puppets from their minds of clayI’m no man of honour
Myself is my [bad word] king
But somewhere deep within me
The bells of conscience ringBeware beware of the words I twist
I am small but my reach is long
And the ravens black against the winter’s mist
Are whispering the half-man’s song
They’re whispering the half man’s song…Whispering the half man’s song…