Cockatrice (Final Fantasy)

Oh basilisk, oh cockatrice The prophet was a child of flesh Stolen from the family creche And hidden in the wilderness A statue on a steepletop The prophet's now a man of rock And the hundred thousand in his flock Will gather underneath of him Owen and I walk among the plots I'm guided by the slightest touch With his fingertips upon my neck I'm made to be a marionette He asks me how I'd rather go To burn in a fire, or freeze with the snow Well, I'd rather die painful and alone Than be a prophet turned to stone So... Owen, Owen protect me From a life everlasting Owen, Owen protect me From a life everlasting