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THE STAG Peter Sinfield Tell us our good master Why you sit there so quietly And where are the trophies You usually bring home, Like the heads of the Bengal tiger That decorate your great hall And the skins of lion and zebra That you've laid wall to wall... My friends, in the foothills before the rainy season I went out hunting one day all by myself, Keeping the wind in my face I crept up To where a herd of deer were grazing When suddenly before me Stood a great horned king of stags And it's the truth I tell you, believe me As the lord above's my witness, The great beast did not quaver But softly began to speak... "It's written in the stars, lord Upon this day I die So these my gifts I offer To you this Eastertide: These majestic antlers for you To hang your bows on And these my ears as fine cups For you to toast your ladies, Take both my bright eyes For a pair of shining mirrors And all these bristles For brushes to shave your face. I pray that you eat my flesh for ten days And from my hide you make a warm coat And as for your strength and courage My liver will serve you well Thus in the stars it's written, my good sir That the body of this your servant Seven times will be fruitful And seven times be reborn... Tell us our good master Why you sit there so quietly And where are all the trophies You usually bring home... (Contributed by Andy & Mogg - August 2003)


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