The icy sparkle of the daylight air and the bitter screaming wind

Could find no path to the darkened lair, where demons only dare descend.

The frozen halls of the glacier’s depths were stained with sin and gore,

            and the blood of beast and man—

            and the death of beast and man—

Where the cries of beast and man were stilled forevermore.

A dragon has not natural birth but is made of fear and lies,

That live within the hearts of men, and so she never dies.

She does not roam the land by day as told in fables past,

            but wakes to the light of each new moon—

            and leaves her tomb at each new moon—

And kills her prey at each new moon, to break the month long fast.

A quiet town of gentle folk lay at peace on the valley floor

In the shadow of the glacier cliffs where the dragon had her door.

The elm-wood cottage of Miss Amy Vance stood in the village square.

            a perfect girl with tender heart—

            an angel with a tender heart—

A lovely girl with tender heart and eyes so blue and fair.

Ice reflections of the setting sun brought colors quite unmatched,

Except by golden curls that fell when Amy’s ties unlatched.

Her beauty shown yet deeper still in every thoughtful deed,

            for her way was love—

            and her soul was love—

And her life was love for all who lived apart from hate and greed.

The village watchman stood his post, his duty known and clear—

To ring the bell and give alarm, should a dragon come too near.

And on this new-moon night she came on silent wings of death,

            to kill the love in Amy Vance—

            to steal the youth of Amy Vance—

To take the life of Amy Vance, and stop her heart and breath.

The dragon made of fear and lies grew stronger as she passed

The houses holding human hearts afraid to beat their last.

No man stepped out to face his shame with sword or bow or lance,

            but stayed behind his door—

            and bolted tight his door—

So the dragon found the door of blue-eyed Amy Vance.

Miss Amy woke to the stench of Hell and saw the evil near,
But made no cry to save herself, for she knew not of lies or fear.

Pity felt for a life so low and a soul as black as night,

            she pulled the dragon to her breast—

            and stroked the dragon at her breast—

And begged the dragon at her breast to stay ‘til morning light.

Tears of love burned through scales of hate, and so the dragon died,

To return to Hell where she was born on evil’s rising tide.

The dragon thrived a hundred years against sword and bow and lance,

            but died of love—

            was killed by love—

Was drowned in love poured freely forth by blue-eyed Amy Vance.