Figure hanging on a leather band. Cog consults the watch he cups in his hand. Bejewelled movement measures lost and vanished time. Pray for the boy who makes his bed in cold earth and quicklime. CHORUS:. So stay the hands arrest the time. 'Till I am captured by your touch. Blessings I don't count. Small mercies and such. The flags may lower as we approach the favourite hour. Now there's a tragic waste of brutal youth. Strip and polish this unvarnished truth. The tricky door that gapes beneath the ragged noose. The crippled verdict begs again for the lamest excuse. CHORUS. Pull out my eyes so I may never spy. Waving branches as they're waving goodbye. Their vile perfume brings to my mouth a bitter taste. The murmuring brooks had best speak up it's a terrible waste. CHORUS.