Tituba dances on the bones of the dead
While the wind plays the music that rings in her head.
And the salt from the mist that comes in with the tide
Erodes all the truths that history can't hide.
And the New England nights are blacker than hell
While Tituba longs for the three o'clock bell,
When the groans of the dead will silence once more
And the goodfolk of Salem can unlock their doors.
But until the bell strikes three times so loud
Not even the moonlight can cut through the clouds.
While Tituba dances on the bones of the dead
And the wind plays the music that rings in her head.