[Intro] Lieutenant steps into the cold stone room, soft-shoed, careful, like a hush before noon. The warrant's come — that's the order to kill, signed and sealed, resting on the windowsill. Tomorrow morning, before the bell's third chime, More looks up slow, like he's got all the time, and welcomes it the way you'd welcome rain after a drought that stretched too long in pain. [Chorus] He says, "I have not lived so ill, I fear to die" — not a tremble in his voice, not one crooked sigh. The stone walls listen, the candle burns low, a quiet man deciding how a brave man ought to go. [Verse 2] He jokes the king's sent him a receipt — a cure, a sure fix for the stone that made his gut endure. That's a kidney ache, a gnawing, grinding pain — the headsman's remedy will end it clean, he'll explain. Then word arrives that Fisher died the day before, the same dark road now waiting at his door. He counts the coin left over, finds the sum is small — spent on crutches, cloaks for soldiers, scholars, all. "I think I am the poorest Chancellor that ever was in England," not a hoard, not a stall, no treasure stashed to dodge an attainder's claim — that's when the crown takes everything in a traitor's name. He's left them little; he gave it all away, small pickings for the state to seize or weigh. [Verse 3] His wife comes weeping, daughters trailing near, and Roper beside them, choked with fear, begging him submit, just sign, just bend, save the only candle he's got left to spend. For one breath he wavers, the room holds its breath, love pulling hard against a will unmoved — obdurate: stubborn, fixed, nothing left to prove. Then he jokes he won't need a barber's blade: "the headsman now shall cut off head and all," he said. [Bridge] No trim, no shave, no vanity left to tend, one clean stroke will finish what the years won't end. He turns to his children, lays a blessing soft and small, quiet and certain, over each and all. [Verse 4] "Sweet wife, good night, good night" — the candle gutters low, the warrant waits for morning, but his heart won't bow. One last look at the faces he loves in that room, then the Tower folds him into its stone-cold gloom. [Chorus] He says, "I have not lived so ill, I fear to die" — not a tremble in his voice, not one crooked sigh. The stone walls listen, the candle burns low, a quiet man deciding how a brave man ought to go. [Outro] Good night, sweet wife — the gentlest words he gave, before the Tower settled him toward the waiting grave.
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