In-Con Sequential Art
Tuesday
Apr282015

Though All Men Do Despise Us

Hey-ho, the Drowned God waits
In the depths of the sea with the souls he takes
And I slake his thirst for thralldom sending soldiers below
Into the Merling King's hall where the dead men go

Iron-born, iron-bred, iron-bastards, iron-bled
From the Pyke to Old Wyk, cross the sea where thralls fled
Our reputation's an accusation, but that don't surprise us
We reave, pillage, and win, though all men do despise us

Sneer through my smile at your finery, I'm plundering your winery
In mind's eye, betimes I'll pay with steel for silk and ivory
Lord of Green and Plenty in your gold-swept land
Taste the salt of blood and frenzy from my cold left hand

Finger dance with one hand; keep the left free for the blade
Neither farmer, smith, or trader do I be; war's the trade
Hard places breed hard men, and I'm bad to the bone
Like the Old Ways of men who sat the seastone throne

Row, row, the black sails full
The Reaper is coming, the blades at the cull
The Drowned God is calling you from halls of ice
Reaving the shore to pay the iron price

Every captain a king on his salt-stained decks
Born free and full of fury; no man genuflects
Even the Greyjoy and his crown are merely first before equals
The men of Iron Isles, our names cursed by your people

Iron and cold ocean, grim and black faced
I hack your mouth open; how's my ax taste?
My wife of stone lives life at home, but I crave flesh to a fault
Your daughters to feed those coffers, those girls are guests of the salt

Your sons to dark waters to meet the Drowned God
For Drumms and Goodbrothers, Harlaws and now Codd
These names are bitter oaths in the prayers of every sept
But the sea will always rise in the tears your wives wept

Fields are for farmers, I choose armor and an axe for my plow
Sow your corn cobs for tomorrow; I'm the master of now
A bastard of prows and sails, this pirate his head forever high
The tide brings evil waters, what is dead can never die

Row, row, the black sails full
The Reaper is coming, the blades at the cull
The Drowned God is calling you from halls of ice
Reaving the shore to pay the iron price