Wrot

Mother Father

I would rather

Kill myself

Then marry that man

I'd rather be dead

Then spinning thread

And cursing young women

Apart 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 mole hill

And a mouse hole

Apart 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!