Picture me in some abandoned corner and listen closely to what you think I may be saying. If voices were toys we could have so much fun,
but I'd rather take them apart and see how they run.
If the voice of St. Joan were a supplement for thoughts culled from memory, would you feel her pain as if it were your very own? (I doubt it.)
If her voice were made of wax and it burned at the wick,
would its smoke hover in the air and turn black and thick
and sing songs of torture that would make you feel sick?
Yep, you guessed it, it's the year 1431 and the guards are leading Joan of Arc to the courthouse where the inquisition will try her on the grounds of heresy.
A Venus in armor, a heart made of muscle
and with the sword of St. Michael, the olive branches rustle.
Then they wither and fade from the long warring dance
after Joan earned the victory driving the English from France.
Fe, fi, foe, fum...I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he alive or be he dead....I'll crush his bones to make my bread.
The English were incensed, they made no amends.
Joan added injury to defeat, the English wanted their revenge.
They said she was infernal, a consort of the devil.
The inquisition was alerted of the maiden considered Satan's own rebel.
Her head was shorn of its hair, a skull on the make
for after the trial she'd be burned at the stake.
"It's time to light the fire."
The crowd assembled to watch her burning.
They stood and watched with bitter yearning.
The fire crackled her mortal shell
in a terrible coup between heaven and hell.
Flames of death all yellow and fierce
rising up towards heaven climbing up through her skirt.
The crowd looked on at the maiden fair
as the fire licked onto her pubic hair.
She steamed and she boiled and she prayed to her maker,
grasping a burning cross to her breast as it baked her.
There are onions in the field that make tears roll strong
but the sight of Joan's unburned heart in the ashes convinced the inquisition their judgement was dead wrong.
They had committed a crime, a sin without redemption. The judges could not hide. God's eyes stared down upon them and they all committed suicide.
Joan of Arc met a martyr's end.
She took the blood of the Englishmen.
They had captured her beloved France so she ran them away.
So, for crushing their bones she was burned today.
Lyrics submitted by boretronix