| Look for me every night, if you half close your eyes | 
| You can make out mine in the ghostly light | 
| And you’ll hear me cry, «It's not me | 
| Though you shrink in fear, I am nowhere near | 
| I’m apparently not fit to rest here | 
| Were my grave and wake for my mother’s sake | 
| For if you care to exhume you’ll see it’s not my tomb | 
| You’ll find no bones, no sticks, only stones | 
| Cause whatever I did, I must’ve paid high | 
| Cause there’s nothing left to remember me by | 
| And the people I see at night say it serves me right | 
| If I knew my crime would I suffer more? | 
| If I wasn’t blind to those days before | 
| I know that all these stones that serve to replace my bones | 
| Were laid to hide whatever revenge was played that night | 
| But the sound of the dark, I’ve heard it before | 
| And the people I see in my sleep said they’d seen me run from the law | 
| Well, is there anything that they don’t know? | 
| I know that where I lie, I can’t see hill or sky | 
| I’m somewhere below paying for what I don’t know | 
| Cause whatever hearts broke, what houses were burned | 
| Whomever was slain and what friendships were spurned | 
| They made sure I learned that there’s nothing worse than to not know | 
| There’s nothing worse than to not know |