Skull at the Tavern Door

Time to hear some new tales! ********************************* Visualizer - Vizzy.io Image - Frosting.ai Vocals/Instruments - Suno.com ********************************* Lyrics ------------------------------------------------------------- Oh, gather near, ye merry souls, And mind the moonlit road— For not all bones are buried things, And not all wolves are cold! Down by the lane where the lanterns swing, Where the tavern windows glow, Came a wolf in battered silver mail With a hood drawn dark and low. His boots were worn, his cloak was torn, His oath long cracked and sore, And beneath that hood was a bleached-white skull— Still grinning toward the door. He dreamed of ale, a chair, a fire, One peaceful little pour, But trouble had a russet tail And watched the tavern door. Oh! Fiddle high and stomp the floor, He never reached the tavern door! Pinned by arrows, cloak to stone, Fox-girl said, “Stay down, dead bone!” He swore, “I’m cursed, not corpse, you see!” She laughed, “That’s what a corpse would plea!” Oh, sing it loud forevermore— The skull at the tavern door! First arrow struck his trailing cloak, The second kissed his boot, The third one split the road ahead And made him halt pursuit. He raised both hands, all gauntlet-clad, And gave a weary sigh, As though this sort of moonlit mess Had found him many times. From shadow stepped the fox so sly, With moonlight in her grin, “Polite for something dead,” she said, “With no excuse for skin.” He claimed his oath had broken once, And left him thusly dressed. She nocked one more and tilted close— “Then maybe break one less.” Oh! Fiddle high and stomp the floor, He never reached the tavern door! Pinned by arrows, cloak to stone, Fox-girl said, “Stay down, dead bone!” He swore, “I’m cursed, not corpse, you see!” She laughed, “That’s what a corpse would plea!” Oh, sing it loud forevermore— The skull at the tavern door! Then down she sprang like autumn flame, And tackled him full square, His armor rang, his ribs complained— Though ribs were barely there. She sat astride his silver chest, One dagger at his chin, Which made things awkward, truth be told, For he had no skin. She leaned down close with a ranger’s grin, Her dagger near his jaw, And asked what kept her from dragging him To answer temple law. He answered dry as winter bones, That he was late for stew, And if he meant to haunt the road, He’d be less kind to you. She blinked at that, then laughed once sharp, “Bold words for walking dead.” “I’m cursed,” he sighed, “not buried yet— Though I see how you were led.” She narrowed eyes of amber-bright, Still sharp, but near amused. “You swear you’re not a graveyard thing?” “I swear I’m often accused.” “My oath was cracked, my honor stained, My penance wears this face. But I still tip well, hold doors wide, And never haunt the place.” The fox leaned back, then cut him free, With one last warning shot: “If you start biting patrons, wolf, I’ll pin you to the pot.” Oh! Fiddle high and stomp the floor, He finally reached the tavern door! Freed from arrows, dust, and stone, Fox-girl spared the old skull-bone! He bowed and gave his thanks to thee, She said, “I’m watching constantly.” Oh, sing it loud forevermore— The skull at the tavern door! They entered to a sudden hush, Then whispers filled the room, For death itself had asked for ale Beside a fox in bloom. The barkeep froze, the candles shook, A drunkard dropped his stew, The wolf just sighed at all the stares— The fox said, “Aye, I knew.” Oh! Fiddle high and stomp the floor, He found his seat beside the door! Pinned by arrows, spared by wit, Cursed old wolf with skull-face lit! She raised her cup, he raised his too, Though drinking posed some work to do. Oh, sing it loud forevermore— The skull at the tavern door! So judge not quick by bone or breath, Nor hood, nor hollow grin, For some look dead from punishment, Yet still have warmth within. And should you walk by moonlit lane Where tavern lanterns pour, Beware the fox who guards the road— And the skull at the tavern door!