Song of the Snowy Ranges Songtext
von Robbie Basho

Listen my son to my tale
I who hold the reins of time
The passage ways are dark and narrow
The snowy ranges hard to climb
I am a lion, she is an icy stallion
Formed by the blood of men who love to ride
Do not mount her until you are ready
Or be like me and sore a child
Merci mon dieu, merci mon dieu
The bride of Christ she is too hot to handle
Like fire through the fingers
A ruby sword, a golden pineapple
The queen of death pressed to her lips
Merci mon dieu, merci mon dieu


In the valley the bulls have assembled
White tusk gleaming in the night
A grave before them burns of desire
For young have I since taken my wife
As I lay sitting in the sunlight
My wounds slowly, slowly heal
Royal knights and golden lances
The mountain horns round the hill
Aye, dear Muriel, she′s in a cistern
Warm by blood of men who love thee right
But do not count her until you're ready
For being like me and so determined
Get thee content
And she′s content