Over the vales and mountains,
When the mist and fog descend,
Overflowing like colossal fountains,
Spilling over without an end.
When the moon is covered by it,
Obscured beyond all reasonable recognition,
Distant murmurs, or so goes the myth,
Can be heard, murmurs with pained disposition.
But only when the illuminous moon,
Defeats all fog and mist,
When night descends, all too soon,
Does the wailing truly exist.
For miles and miles the sound stretches,
Keeping many awake at night,
And quite an emotional response it fetches;
We feel sorry for the Cubone plight.
The guilt shared is collective,
For human hunters are to blame,
The mothers all slain or held captive,
Made to fight in a barbaric game.
Played by those in faraway lands,
Those who would pit friend against friend,
Our time is slipping through our hands,
Peace and understanding at an end.
They come to our forests,
Take all that they wish,
Marrowak prime targets
That never resist,
So long as they leave,
Their children unharmed
And so, they grieve,
For the children, alarmed,
Release pained wails-
For their mothers they're crying.
Without their mothers, suffering,
Without their mothers, dying.
Other Pokémon too,
Are taken, you bet,
But they seem to,
Be able to forget.
Not so for the poor Cubone,
Nor will it ever be so.
For without it's mother it is not at home-
Never, not once, you know-
Never, not once, not a single day-
Never, not once did they fail-
Never, not once, no, not they-
Have they not released a wail.
A wail as heartbreaking,
As it is morose and long.
A wail that portrays everything-
It is their memorial song.