Track VIII

The sun rose high over gunshots and the awful sound of whipping
Blanche hid under her bed, but could still hear the red blood dripping
Her mother rooted 'round until she found her hidden heir
She laughed and dragged young Blanche out by her hair

At the hanging tree they waited, on the outskirts of town
A crowd had come for murder
For a spiteful sentence to come handed down
Three figures noosed and hooded, three horses for their final thrones
The rope pulled at their branches, the vultures waited for their bones
A hangman in black leather came to conjure up death's dance
Fixed in an unholy grin, the dark face of Bloody Lance