Nightfall is the hour that shrouds him
Knowing what he knows, see what he's seen
He seeks out a substance to cloud him
And should some wayward traveler pass upon his way
He'll tell them a tale, and it's always the same
No man can name what's not meant to be named
A mist at his eye
A catch in his throat
Psychosis embodied
Barely a man, yet not quite a ghost
There is no name
There is no name for the thing that's not meant to be named
Sorrow and madness in one
An unseemly aura about him
Ragged in sight and reeking of ale
His detractors find reason to doubt him
The sea, he says, is boiling with sin like some vast sunken sodom
And he laughs not at the jest that the
Devil himself doth reside at the bottom
One thousand grips do rise
Stronger than timber or canvas of ship
Cries to lovers, gods, and mothers
Issue from men, the last word on their lips
