As a young boy I was told
A story 'bout a women, old,
And her breath kills children
When she pulls them into her field
Mother said: "Don't lose your way!
When she calls you it's too late."
It sounds like wind in the corn
There she stands just waiting for you
In your eyes burns dusty seed
Stalks, so sharp, pushed in your feet
Knowing not where you are
You're in fear - unable to cry
Mother's words come to your mind
No way out that you can find
Helpless, down on your knees
And you already feel her hands...

And remember what she said
About the Corn-Mummy-Death

...And beware of this day
When she calls you'll lose your way
Singing wind's silent voice
Yellow corn, you've got no choice
Feel her hands, smell her breath
And die the Corn-Mummy-Death