A Pict Song

Rome never looks where she treads
Always her heavy hooves fall
On our bellies, our hearts, and our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we squall
Her sentries pass on and that’s all
And we gather behind them in hordes
And plot to re-conquer the Wall
With only our tongues for our swords
We are the Little Folk—we!
Too little to love or to hate
But leave us alone and you’ll see
How fast we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak—
Rats gnawing cables in two—
Moths making holes in a cloak—
How they must love what they do!
Yes—and we Little Folk too
We are busy as they—
Working our works out of view—
Watch, and you’ll see it some day!
For we are the Little Folk—we!
Too little to love or to hate
But leave us alone and you’ll see
How fast we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
No, maybe we are not strong
But we know Peoples that are
And gladly we’ll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in War!
Well we shall be slaves just the same
But when have we never been slaves?
And you—you will die of the shame
And then we shall dance on your graves!
For we are the Little Folk—we!
Too little to love or to hate
But leave us alone and you’ll see
How fast we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!