A murder of crows, serenade the sky
And the wind at my back, the sun in my eye
I'm so damn tired, from holding my head high
Eight long days, since that bastard lied

Cause we fell for his banter
And we followed his hand
And he led us to war
In a promised land

With the bishop sold, turned the farmer blind
And we gave them our ghost, when he made up our minds
He led us to death my friend; he was bleeding us dry
It was said to victor the spoiled, to the loser the prize

When it comes to your judgment time
You're the murderous type
And I hope when they hang you
They string you up right

Cause we fell for his banter
And we followed his hand
He made up our minds
And led us to war
Yeah, we followed his hand
He led us to war, again, again, again, again
And I hope when they hang you they string you up right