Hyrulian Hero
Zelda Informer Codger
It was eighteen-eighty-something,
Well before the west was won,
In the twilight of December,
Underneath the setting sun,
That a boy by name of Nicholas,
Sat waiting for the wicked night to come.
On the evening chill would ride,
A stranger from the pole,
The arbiter of justice,
For his immortal soul,
And on that night he reckoned,
He'd never get another lump of coal.
He smoked and fought with older boys,
He gambled with the men,
When he swore it smelled like alcohol,
Though he was only ten,
And his mother warned him one day,
He'd pay an awful price for all his sin.
The moon was high and aided by,
The silver light it shed,
Carefully he laid the trap,
And then crawled into bed,
But the villain kept his boots laced up,
And gripped his Smith and Wesson by his head.
Sometime past the midnight hour,
A coach pulled up outside,
And the driver shambled off his perch,
Exhausted from the ride,
And a jingling like silver spurs,
Broke the holy silence with each stride.
Like the ghost of Christmas yet to come,
He stole into the room,
Followed by the spectre of,
A pipe smoke scented plume,
And graceful as a poet,
Began to fill the stockings in the gloom.
Then ol' Nicholas sprang out of bed,
And brought his piece to bear,
The hammer of his thirty-eight,
Suspended in the air,
But quicker than his trigger pull,
The old man caught him in his wizened stare.
Like the blinding lightning that,
The winter clouds contrive,
Flashing from its holster came,
A silver forty-five,
He heard a hollow click -,
But Nicholas found he was still alive.
Beaten and embarrassed,
The coward fired twice,
Playing the assassin,
To cover up his vice,
He'd have his awful reckoning,
At any ugly price.
And Father Christmas tumbled,
Though peacefully it seemed,
But in his palm a bullet caught,
The moonlight as it gleamed,
A cartridge labeled forty-five,
Graven with the single word, "Redeemed".
* * * * *
The boy had found forgiveness where,
Forgiveness wasn't sought,
And the hatred in his heart went out,
A peace not cheaply bought,
Saint Nicholas was born that day,
The wretched boy was dead without a shot.
----------------------------------------------------------
I've never had so much trouble writing lyrics. This was written to the melody of Turn the Page and it turned out...eh. Well I finished it anyway.
Well before the west was won,
In the twilight of December,
Underneath the setting sun,
That a boy by name of Nicholas,
Sat waiting for the wicked night to come.
On the evening chill would ride,
A stranger from the pole,
The arbiter of justice,
For his immortal soul,
And on that night he reckoned,
He'd never get another lump of coal.
He smoked and fought with older boys,
He gambled with the men,
When he swore it smelled like alcohol,
Though he was only ten,
And his mother warned him one day,
He'd pay an awful price for all his sin.
The moon was high and aided by,
The silver light it shed,
Carefully he laid the trap,
And then crawled into bed,
But the villain kept his boots laced up,
And gripped his Smith and Wesson by his head.
Sometime past the midnight hour,
A coach pulled up outside,
And the driver shambled off his perch,
Exhausted from the ride,
And a jingling like silver spurs,
Broke the holy silence with each stride.
Like the ghost of Christmas yet to come,
He stole into the room,
Followed by the spectre of,
A pipe smoke scented plume,
And graceful as a poet,
Began to fill the stockings in the gloom.
Then ol' Nicholas sprang out of bed,
And brought his piece to bear,
The hammer of his thirty-eight,
Suspended in the air,
But quicker than his trigger pull,
The old man caught him in his wizened stare.
Like the blinding lightning that,
The winter clouds contrive,
Flashing from its holster came,
A silver forty-five,
He heard a hollow click -,
But Nicholas found he was still alive.
Beaten and embarrassed,
The coward fired twice,
Playing the assassin,
To cover up his vice,
He'd have his awful reckoning,
At any ugly price.
And Father Christmas tumbled,
Though peacefully it seemed,
But in his palm a bullet caught,
The moonlight as it gleamed,
A cartridge labeled forty-five,
Graven with the single word, "Redeemed".
* * * * *
The boy had found forgiveness where,
Forgiveness wasn't sought,
And the hatred in his heart went out,
A peace not cheaply bought,
Saint Nicholas was born that day,
The wretched boy was dead without a shot.
----------------------------------------------------------
I've never had so much trouble writing lyrics. This was written to the melody of Turn the Page and it turned out...eh. Well I finished it anyway.