Baskerville - Argyle Goolsby

The moss sinks softly to the ground

With each ginger step of this hellhound

Midnight reveals a shaggy mane

Conceals with love this hunting thing

Down in Baskervillle.

Hear it howl

Three hours down, the hand bites one

There’s no sound, just the smell of firstborn son

Ribs flex on blackened lungs that growl

A local legends got a vendetta on this house

Way out in Baskerville.

Hear it howl

I will cut its' chain tonight.

I will drag with no respite

The firstborn into hedges, and directly into legend

The devil runs in hide upon the midnight tides

The devil runs in hide upon the moors tonight

Down in Baskerville.

Hear it howl