The butchers son

Where the pines whisper low where the cold rivers run,

And the snow hides the sins of a blood-stained sun.

The axe splits the cedar, the frost bites the bone,

Where the old man still walks though they buried him cold.

He taught me the knife, how to hunt, how to bleed,

“Boy, some things in this world only answer to steel.”

A cut must be clean, boy, steady and sure,

you best make it pure.

I learned every joint, where the bone gives way, Never knew I'd use it like this someday.

They don’t hear death ‘til it’s skinning their pride.

What they did to the weak, The butcher’s boy’s come—and he’s carving his name.

They called me a ghost, a shadow, a curse, Left ‘em hanging in pieces—no prayer, no hearse. Just like back home, where the meat hooks sway,

But these ain’t for venison, no—this is pay.

They learned what the mountains once knew, You don’t cross the hand that can fillet you.

They scream to their God, but He don’t make a sound,

Cause the skinner walks where the lost are found.

A cut must be clean, boy, steady and sure,

you best make it pure.

I learned every joint, where the bone gives way, Never knew I'd use it like this someday.

They don’t hear death ‘til it’s skinning their pride.

What they did to the weak, The butcher’s boy’s come—and he’s carving his name.

Now the wind carries names on the dust where I’ve been,

And the sand’s stained red where I’ve salted their sin.

What they took from the world, I took back in steel,

The butcher’s boy rides—and he’s hungry still.

Some say the pines whisper, some say they scream,

That my shadow don’t match when I walk through the beams.

That the wind calls me demon—but they don’t understand,

The worst monsters look just like a man.

Now the snow glows red where the trappers once ran,

And my boy’s out there huntin’ with blood of his enemies on his hands.

What was carved into me, now it’s carved into him,

The Skinner still walks… and the night’s getting thin..

“Listen close, boy…

The blade remembers. The land does too.

They’ll tell you we’re cursed… that the wind talks in tongues.

Maybe it does. Maybe we are.

But a wolf don’t ask why it’s fanged—

It just hunts.

So when they come for you…

Peel ‘em slow.

Let the crows know…

We’re still here.”