Cry a song of ten Gil, a basket full of lies.
Eight and thirty small ones, baked in a pie.
When the omens are calling, the voidsent start to sing.
"isn't this a lovely dish, that we are feasting?"
The scholar in his office, counting out his notes.
The Dragoon was stuck in ishguard, slaying fearsome foes.
Then there was the poor white mage - A padjal through and through.
None of them could save them.
The thirty seven and you.
Eight and thirty small ones, baked in a pie.
When the omens are calling, the voidsent start to sing.
"isn't this a lovely dish, that we are feasting?"
The scholar in his office, counting out his notes.
The Dragoon was stuck in ishguard, slaying fearsome foes.
Then there was the poor white mage - A padjal through and through.
None of them could save them.
The thirty seven and you.
