When we're working nights, the village round
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the old church becomes scary town.
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All curtained windows and bolted doors
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but never a eye to see
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as us fairy folks sweep from the hill.
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Never caught us and never will.
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Pulling roses and daffodils
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mayhem in the high degree.
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The blacksmith chased us all to ground.
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They searched all night we were never found.
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The tinker boys and the sheriff's men
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shaking the tallest tree.
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And we sat and watched the women hide.
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Laughed so much we split our sides.
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Scattered horses that they would ride
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mayhem in the high degree.
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We crossed through fields of midnight green
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often heard but seldom seen.
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Tore along hedges,stripping leaves
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no-one could quite agree
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whether we came from north or south.
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We stole the screams from out their mouths
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and go where no man would allow
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mayhem in the high degree.
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Like scaly carp and feathered swan
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to nature's world we do belong.
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We ride the thin winds of the night
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and set dark spirits free.
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We terrify the mare and foal.
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The fox stood still and far too bold.
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So we strung him up, brush neatly folded;
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mayhem, maybe.
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Mayhem Maybe
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| Jethro Tull |
