[Verse 1]
Sixth of July, the fog still thin,
sheriffs wait where the Tower gates begin.
The Lieutenant comes, and his voice can't hold —
tears on a jailer, duty gone cold.
He hands More over like a borrowed book,
and More just smiles at the man who shook.
"I wore your office once, good sirs, recall —
I was sheriff of London before this fall."
[Chorus]
Wit on the scaffold, laughing at the end,
a joke for the headsman, a nod for a friend.
Even the king's own lords must confess
with love in their mouths for a man they oppress.
That's the lesson Tower Hill still shows —
how a calm heart answers when the cold wind blows.
[Verse 2]
Scaffold — that's the platform built for the blade,
shaky and splintered, poorly made.
More eyes the stairway, leaning and frail,
turns it to comedy, turns it to tale:
help me climbing, that's kindly done,
"as for my coming down, let me alone,
I'll look to that myself" — no hand required,
a final performance, calmly fired.
He calls himself lawyer no longer at court,
"makes me of a state pleader a stage player," his retort —
the last scene now of his own written play,
exit a statesman, enter the gray.
[Verse 3]
To Shrewsbury he leans with a wink and a vow:
tell the king I'll send my bald head now.
The headsman kneels — that's the one with the axe —
More forgives him fully, no debts, no cracks,
pays him his fee like a gentleman's debt,
warns him kindly: my neck's thin yet,
"my beard's committed no treason," he jests,
"it's already been executed" — spare that, he requests.
He walks east-side, calm as a man taking air,
"point me the block; I ne'er was here before" —
no headless errand, no wasted stride,
just one last journey, unhurried, wide.
[Chorus]
Wit on the scaffold, laughing at the end,
a joke for the headsman, a nod for a friend.
Even the king's own lords must confess
with love in their mouths for a man they oppress.
That's the lesson Tower Hill still shows —
how a calm heart answers when the cold wind blows.
[Bridge]
Doublet unbuttoned, a collar laid bare,
no fear in the shoulders, no panic there.
History remembers the jokes that he made —
sharper than any headsman's blade.
[Verse 4]
Some say the gallows should silence a man,
strip him of laughter, erase every plan.
But More kept his candle lit to the last,
burning through terror, outshining the past.
No curses for Henry, no venom, no spite,
just one final kindness before the dark night.
"The king's good servant," he said, "but God's first" —
a line that outlived the crown and its thirst.
The axe fell once, and history bent,
but wit like his own was never quite spent.
Centuries on, we still speak his name,
a scholar, a jester, a steady flame.
[Outro]
Surrey steps forward to close the scene,
calling him learned, calling him clean:
"A very learned worthy gentleman
seals error with his blood" — and so it ran.
Tower Hill quiets, the story told,
a man stayed witty till the morning turned cold.