Strike the drums
For they’re all dead
And all the sad days
At the thought of this…
It doesn’t really compare.

I close my eyes
And I see the happy times
And then the bell chimes
Wakes me up again
And I see the moorland

I take a stroll
Again the bell tolls
And I turn back
And all I spot is a black
Cloth of wings

So strike the drums
For they’re all dead
And all the bad days
I had in my head
Have become real.