The Klan (Traditional)                            
                                                  
The countryside was cold and still, There was a   
cross upon a hill, And this cross wore a burning  
hood, To hide its rotten core of wood. Father, I  
hear the iron sound Of hoofbeats on the frozen    
ground.                                           
                                                  
Down from the hills the riders came, Jesus, it    
was a crying shame, To see the blood upon their   
lips, And hear the snarling of their whips.       
Mother, I feel a stabbing pain; Blood flows down  
like the summer's rain.                           
                                                  
And each man wore a mask of white, To hide his    
cruel face from sight. And each one sucked a      
hollow breath, Out of the empty lungs of death.   
Sister, hold my bloody head; It's so lonesome to  
be dead.                                          
                                                  
And he who rides among the Klan, He is a          
monster, not a man. For underneath that white     
disguise, I've looked into his eyes. Brother,     
won't you stand by me; It's not easy to be free.