Wrot

Mother, father
I would rather
Kill myself than marry that man
I’d rather be dead
Than spinning thread
And cursing young women

A part of me
Has already died
I’ll throw away
The flesh that resides
I’ll become the mud and earth
The dirt and grime
Is all I’m worth
Rotting, rotting, rotting
In the dirt

Through the crook
And over the clea barrow
Through a molehill
And a mouse-hole

A part of me
Has already died
I’ll throw away
The flesh that resides
I’ll become the mud and earth
The dirt and grime
Is all I’m worth
Rotting, rotting, rotting
In the dirt

Rotting, rotting, rotting, rotting
Rotting, rotting, rotting, rotting