Beneath the moon-drop eve he waits,
Watching time drift past his brow,
Whilst the owl twittered in the ferns,
And the sparrows nestled in the twigs,
And the cold wind wisps wild 'round the willows,
T'wards the twisted taverns of town,
So he waits past the sunset,
Waiting for the angel of his hearts desire.

He waits for the girl of god,
With rich brown locks draped over
Her petite and delicate face,
With silken, glossy skin that's laid
Perfectly over her womanly curves.
Fine satin flows over her form,
Crested gold sits upon her hair,
Crowning her with the first woman's halo.