Manananggal

from by Sterling Witt

/

lyrics

Underneath the full moon they whisper and talk. 
Two brothers on a late night walk.

On through the woods, and down by the river,
something in the meadow made them both shiver.

“What’s that?” The younger brother asked the other.

They crept closer to get a better look.
The wind howled and the tree limbs shook. 

Overwhelming fear stopped them in their tracks.
A hair-raising chill ran up their backs. 

The legs and waist of a woman stood strong.
Little brother asked, “What could’ve gone wrong?”

Her severed flesh caught the boys off guard.
The morbid wound made their hearts pound hard. 

The older boy looked to the sky
for he knew the Manananggal could fly. 

She whooped and swooped all over the village,
feasting on the blood of anyone she could pillage. 

Favoring children younger than young.
Removing their hearts with a long pointed tongue.

The older boy explained the situation. 
The Manananggal seeks annihilation. 

Her long, flowing skirt blew in the wind.
When her torso returned, it was destined to mend.

“Brother, can you overcome the urge to be a coward? 
Together this evil can be overpowered.”

The boys agreed
To do the deed
For if they fled
They’d wind up dead.

They pulled up a mess of garlic root,
crushed it under the heel of a boot.

They smeared the garlic on the bloody stump,
it steamed and fizzed with every last clump.

The Mananangal's foot started to tap. 
The boys had a feeling it was a trap.

 They couldn’t believe their eyes. 
What a terrifying surprise.

No time to run, they hid in a tree,
scared to death of what they might see.

It didn’t take long—daybreak was near.
She flapped around, terrifyingly clear.

She smashed her torso down onto her hips.
She tasted garlic upon her lips.

Wickedly trying to reconnect. 
Her body was broken, cunningly wrecked. 

She screamed in despair,
doomed, without a prayer.

Frantically flying, a fickle fit of fury.
It’s not a pretty sight to watch evil worry.

Rage swelled up, she sought revenge. 
The sun's coming up, her flesh would singe.

She smoked and she cried.
Engulfed, she died.

Whatever was left had turned to stone.
The boys together bravely walked home.

credits

from Something's Awry, released April 10, 2020

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Sterling Witt Kansas City, Missouri

“Originality is a hard thing to come by these days; and not a word we use lightly, but it has to be said – Sterling Witt is IT.”
-Indie Music Magazine

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