In the darkness of the sky's without a moon on the desolate night
be weary of the sounds that herald a maiden, for in this your death comes right
They are not children, they are not women, they are monsters, formless creatures to be sure
and for the helpless that wander their ways in the city, prayers be to them for that false lure
They are born armless within the darkness of the place we stay far from near
but should you see them with hands, they were once owned by another I come to fear
Hand keepers...unfeeling, relentless...wishing to be perhaps as their past once came to be
but feel nothing for the beasts...or perhaps like many before in them true fear you will see.