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 pipe 

In 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 
Molding puppets from their minds of clay 

I’m no man of honour 
Myself is my [bad word] king 
But somewhere deep within me 
The bells of conscience ring 

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 

They're whispering the half man's song... 
Whispering the half man’s song...