Athol

I am the blistering hands of those who work all day
Growing strong and calloused as your own grow soft and pale
And aching like the magnet hearts of those you sent away

All I had I gave to you
Now it is gone what have I left to lose?

In this hand I carry a torch, the other holds a knife
I offer here all I possess, no bargain for to strike
For I will take by force what I've been owed for all my life

Rising like the dead
On the day of reckoning
Using the tools that we'd been lent to strike our masters down

And even if your dogs do run me down, my brother will remain
Growing in a farmhouse too colossal to contain
And he'll pour forth like floodwater the moment I am slain

Copyright: SC PUBLISHING DBA SECRETLY CANADIAN PUB.
Writer(s): Daniel Philip Davies, Jack Sharp, Joseph John Hollick, Thomas Edmund Watt