1. |
Broken the Spell
03:27
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I have broken the spell,
Some have tried some have failed,
Some are blind, some can’t see,
Some live life through rose-coloured spectacles, not me
I found my hair in a jar,
A jar of rusty pins,
That voodoo doll had me down to a tee,
That voodoo doll looked exactly, exactly like me
And it means more to them,
Than it means to me,
I cast out the demon from the circle they summoned it,
I have seen the truth,
Awoken from the dream,
I’ve seen black for black and night for night,
I’ve expelled the curse from my life
Three witches circled my house,
With black hats and crooked teeth,
They point their wands cast their spells on me,
They cast their spells but they cant cast a spell on me
And it means more to them,
Than it means to me,
I’ve cast out the demon from the circle they summoned it,
I have seen the truth,
Awoken from the dream,
I’ve seen black for black and night for night,
I’ve expelled the curse from my life
I have broken the spell,
Some have tried some have failed.
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2. |
The Price We Pay
04:20
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Generations come, generations go,
Side by side,
Never seeing what went before,
With our own eyes,
History books will tell,
Of battles lost and won,
But the winner tells the tale,
And life goes on,
Place your bets,
Throw your money on,
But don’t complain when,
Everything comes tumbling down,
You’ve got yourselves to blame,
When our mothers and fathers turned away,
They said, don’t worry children this is the price we pay,
I was born and raised,
I will die,
These are the certainties,
The facts of life,
But they made me sign, when I was too young,
To hold the pen,
They made me sign my life away,
Before I even turned one,
Play a game of noughts and crosses,
But don’t complain when,
Everything comes tumbling down,
You’ve yourself to blame,
When our mothers and fathers turned away,
They said, sons and daughters this is the price you pay,
And the cycle goes on,
Look what we’ve done.
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3. |
The Beast of Bodmin Moor
05:50
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She walks a misty road,
Past the Jamaica Inn at Bolventor,
‘Myttin Da’ she says to passers by,
On the way to her little white house on Bodmin Moor,
Many years she’s walked with a cane,
But her spirit is a strong as granite and slate,
Passers by think she’s loosing her mind,
But there’s something she says that roams there at night,
18 foot men lived by Dozmary Pool,
The wind doesn’t have to be seen for it to be real,
She said ‘I was born from the earth,
Just like every creature and that’s where we’ll return,
And when my time is up,
The pixies will come and lead me to my garden gate’,
Her mother lived at Hornacott,
Saw the houses bought up by the city folk,
They are more concerned with the money they make,
She says the beast belongs but the tourists don’t,
Flickers and pixels re-wired their brains,
Their eyes are closed to what they can’t explain,
She said ‘I was born from the earth,
Just like every creature and that’s where we’ll return,
And when my time is up,
The pixies will come and lead me to my garden gate’,
And I’m not afraid,
I’ve seen men with white mantles on horseback,
The cheesewring and the zodiac,
The black lion guards his empire,
This place is a powerful conduit,
And I’ve had my day,
I’ve seen knowledge replaced with nonsense,
Action without thought of the consequence,
Paupers with delusions of grandeur,
And with me the legends die.
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4. |
Portland Lament
04:29
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Less than a man, more than a myth,
With an ounce of integrity,
The downhearted bard, vacant and sad,
Pursued by a black cloud, following a red balloon,
Despondent, narrating the problems,
You told me to carry on, even when you’re gone,
Messy Brown hair, an old woollen hat,
Hiding a troubled gaze,
Jack of all trades and master of all,
Fool to the hoards, but king to the very few,
He warned us, but no one would listen,
And I wept like a child mourning a friend I never had,
You painted pictures with modesty,
But we will never see the anguish inside of you,
And you taught me about honesty,
When I couldn’t be honest with myself,
I’ve never sailed across the seas,
But I’d go to see a wall,
Painted in black and red, prayers that will never be sent,
A wall of sentiment, a victim of vandals,
And I’d visit the city of roses,
But I’m seven years too young,
And nine years too late,
Too late to try and hold your hand.
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Helghyer UK
Helghyer makes pretty music. Music that tells stories. Music that makes you want to walk barefoot through the woods with
your cape billowing in the breeze. Music that makes you think that maybe, just maybe... magic really could exist.
For more information please visit www.helghyer.com or contact: enquiries@helghyer.com
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