The Woodcutter wakes to face the golden sun.
Reminder of tasks yet to be done.

A pile of reddened gold sits by his bed.
His hands reach up to cradle his head.
Silvered tears fall down and wash away red.
He stares at the blood of the life he has led.

Woodcutter, woodcutter, why do you cry?
Why, why, why, why?
Woodcutter, woodcutter, why do you sigh?
Why, why, why, why?

He picks up his axe, now stoic in face.
He heads to the forest without any haste.
The weeping willow widow looks down at her base.
There the Woodcutter examines the place.

Eyes glance over the others around.
Backs turned, roots meekly shuffling the ground.
Slowly his gaze turns to the willow wise.
“Forgive me,” he says, “I’ve come for my prize.”

Woodcutter, woodcutter, why do you cry?
Why, why, why, why?
Woodcutter, woodcutter, why do you sigh?
Why, why, why, why?

Woodcutter, woodcutter, made of sorrow and lies.
At least let me kiss my children goodbye.
Woodcutter, woodcutter, of heartless gold ties.
“I’m sorry. They’re gone, “ is your muttered reply.
Why, why, why, why?

-Music break-

Woodcutter, woodcutter, why do you cry?
Why, why, why, why?
Woodcutter, woodcutter, why do you sigh?
Why, why, why, why?

A Woodcutter heads home, prize over his back.
Gold spilling over in a dark blue sack.
The job is complete, down to the last of the pack.
Then why does his heavy heart feel as if something were lacked?