The Klan (Traditional)
The countryside was cold and still, There was a
cross upon a hill, And this cross wore a burning
hood, To hide its rotten core of wood. Father, I
hear the iron sound Of hoofbeats on the frozen
Down from the hills the riders came, Jesus, it
was a crying shame, To see the blood upon their
lips, And hear the snarling of their whips.
Mother, I feel a stabbing pain; Blood flows down
like the summer's rain.
And each man wore a mask of white, To hide his
cruel face from sight. And each one sucked a
hollow breath, Out of the empty lungs of death.
Sister, hold my bloody head; It's so lonesome to
And he who rides among the Klan, He is a
monster, not a man. For underneath that white
disguise, I've looked into his eyes. Brother,
won't you stand by me; It's not easy to be free.