They find the rocks in your pockets
While you're sleepwalking out by old Davey's boat.
So does the soul sink?
Or does it float?
'There ain't nothing for it,' says Davey.
'The boy's gotta be fixed.
Well the outside world's brought him demons,
And those demons have brought him to this.'

Oh, sweet and strange,
The choir's strains -
It's the way that the words come straight from the heart
That fills your head with hellsong.

Well the abbot's a righteous man,
He knows you can't fool God.
And the price for harming oneself
Is fifteen strokes of the rod.
With the crowd gathered round,
All rousing to din,
You see Glory and worship
In the abbot's spittle-specked grin.


Oh, sweet and strange,
The choir's strains -
It's the way that the words come straight from the heart
That fills your head with hellsong.

What the abbot don't know,
'Cause it ain't on his Good Book's page,
Those blows don't drive away demons
They rouse them to hunger and rage.
You find the key easy enough
While they're all absorbed in praise.
Now hark at the rapturous cant of their hymn
As the chapel catches ablaze.


Oh, sweet and strange,
The choir's strains -
It's the way that the words come straight from the heart
That fills your head with hellsong.

(They've filled your heart with hellsong
They've filled your head with hellsong)