The poor little soul sat sighing alone
Beneath the sycamore tree
Quivering shoulders, under covers
In the bed where he dreams
The cold sweat seeps into his brow
His fearful mind will sift the ground
While she watches from the shadows of the willow tree
Heaven help me free my voice and scream
Succubus is raping me
The whites of her eyes are there
But I still can't see her face
The poor little soul sat crying alone
Beneath the sycamore tree
Sinking slowly
Through the portal
In the bed where he dreams
The branches reach to pull him down
To join the roots beneath the ground
While she watches from the shadows of the willow tree
Where can he be?
Heaven help me free my voice and scream
Succubus is raping me
The whites of her eyes are there
But I still can't see her face, ah