Oh basilisk, oh cockatrice
The prophet was a child of flesh
Stolen from the family creche
And hidden in the wilderness
A statue on a steepletop
The prophet's now a man of rock
And the hundred thousand in his flock
Will gather underneath of him
Owen and I walk among the plots
I'm guided by the slightest touch
With his fingertips upon my neck
I'm made to be a marionette
He asks me how I'd rather go
To burn in a fire, or freeze with the snow
Well, I'd rather die painful and alone
Than be a prophet turned to stone
So...
Owen, Owen protect me
From a life everlasting
Owen, Owen protect me
From a life everlasting