Woodrose the Warrior from the west of Imparliar,
Had rode through my town one night.
In his hand was a gun and clenched in the other,
Was a blood-soaked and old rusty knife.
He had been running, from the sheriffs a-coming,
For a crime in which he claimed no guilt.
He'd been deemed guilty for burning a building,
That he and his beloved had built.
You see, it had been found that though she was bound,
By marriage, his wife was still led astray.
The sheriff had alleged, and the judge convincingly said,
That Woodrose burnt down the house in a rage.
But Woodrose denied it, and tried to fight it,
When the sentence he was dealt was death,
He said, "This judge is mad, if he thinks he can have,
The last word over my final breath"
So Woodrose attacked and he hacked and he slashed,
His way out of the courtroom that day,
He'd said he'd been framed; his wife was murdered and raped,
By bandits whose gang carried no name.
He said that his wed was forced in to bed,
And the perpetrators burnt down his house.
So as he outran the law, he became of Imparlian Lore,
Playing games of the cat and the mouse:
While on the run, he'd stop at each one,
Of the towns that he would cross along his way,
Looking for the bandits who had gleefully handed,
Him life's miseries and turmoil's spread out on a plate.
And finally he reached, this small town on a beach,
The town in which I reside.
He looked bloody and beaten, his soul was half eaten,
And seeing the towns tavern, he went on inside.
There Woodrose had found, this man sleeping all sound,
Who had passed out from drinking all day.
Woodrose recognised the face, the gun on the waist,
It was one of those men who had taken his wife's life away.
Standing there grinning, he threw the barman a shilling,
And slashed the sleeping bandit across the throat,
And then he collapsed, he fell straight on his back,
In blood, his coat was thoroughly soaked.
It had seemed he'd been stabbed, in an open attack,
By the bandit's gang while riding on down the Highway,
I'll never forget, the man's final breath,
As he died and cried out his wife's name.
"Samantha!", like a panther, he roared, As he laid there weeping to death,
"I have finally avenged her, blessed be the God that sent her,
With Him I have assured where I rest,
For it is certain, that as the curtain,
Closes on life and I begin my rest,
That Heaven won't open, it's doors it will close them,
On any man who kills for the sake of revenge"
This is the tale of Woodrose the Warrior,
A man of Imparlian myth.
But I was there, and it was my bare,
Two eyes that I witnessed this with.
His story is told, by the young and the old,
Throughout Imparliar and all of the lands,
And as I share it with you, I assure you it's true,
For as leader of the gang... his wife's blood has drenched the bones of my hands.
