Old Agnes, the rag hag, she murmurs and mumbles
the rites of a summer ended too soon,
The dark creeps in, for Agnes, Old Agnes,
Round that black pock-marked cloak and her face like the moon.
Old Agnes, the rag hag, she shuffles through dreams
those fingerless hands reaching, blue.
The dark creeps in, for Agnes, Old Agnes,
You turn in your sleep and those fingerless hands reach you, reach you, reach you.
Old Agnes asks for a friend. She needs a soul that understands the peculiar power of her presence, who is unafraid to let the dark creep in. Once, early in the 20th Century, she was brought to life by a pair of wise hands who knew how to add the uncanny to a living piece of folk art. She calls you, she murmurs, she murmurs, she asks to come with you.
Old Agnes, the rag hag, she murmurs and mumbles
the rites of a summer ended too soon,
The dark creeps in, for Agnes, Old Agnes,
Round that black pock-marked cloak and her face like the moon.
Old Agnes, the rag hag, she shuffles through dreams
those fingerless hands reaching, blue.
The dark creeps in, for Agnes, Old Agnes,
You turn in your sleep and those fingerless hands reach you, reach you, reach you.
Old Agnes asks for a friend. She needs a soul that understands the peculiar power of her presence, who is unafraid to let the dark creep in. Once, early in the 20th Century, she was brought to life by a pair of wise hands who knew how to add the uncanny to a living piece of folk art. She calls you, she murmurs, she murmurs, she asks to come with you.
