The Legend of Saw Jones

It was way down South where Sherman had Atlanta all a-burnin' that his only son
was shot and stabbed and killed
And to avoid a lynching for having gone Injun, that surgeon took a post out on
that bloody battlefield
Well he’s hackin' and he’s sawin' and his chisels all are gnawin'
Through the grit and through the grime and through the grue
And he’s whistlin' and he’s grinnin' and his eyes are both a-spinnin'
And his skull is burnin' coldly like the moon
Well nobody knew how the surgeon’s madness grew like a fungus in the absence of
the sun
How he pieced together limbs and how he bayed unholy hymns like his ancient
shaman master once had done
Well he’s hackin' and he’s sawin' and his chisels all are gnawin'
Through the grit and through the grime and through the grue
And he’s whistlin' and he’s grinnin' and his eyes are both a-spinnin'
And his skull is burnin' coldly like the moon
When he saw the body jerk he knew his necromancy’d worked; now until the End of
Days it roams the land
And when it begins to speak, of the grave it always reeks as it vomits up the
secrets of the damned
Well he’s hackin' and he’s sawin' and his chisels all are gnawin'
Through the grit and through the grime and through the grue
And he’s whistlin' and he’s grinnin' and his eyes are both a-spinnin'
And his skull is burnin' coldly like the moon
Then several graves were pillaged and the women of the village met the knife
and hook of lonely Saw Jones
Well the men had had enough and got a posse up to snuff him, but all they found
was Junior sucking marrow from his bones
Well he’s hackin' and he’s sawin' and his chisels all are gnawin'
Through the grit and through the grime and through the grue
And he’s whistlin' and he’s grinnin' and his eyes are both a-spinnin'
And his skull is burnin' coldly like the moon