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Twisted dreams that play out in silence
amongst falling black flakes of ash.
Weaving through the hellish scenarios,
the air rich with rot at last, death at last
Lepers crowd in orgies of sin,
the stench growing ever faster,
The form of the chosen one, born in vile sin ,
moving in closer, a dark cloud precedes this unholy fiend.
Slowly in darkness, they prepare the table,
adorned with the eyes, from the head of the traitor,
We sever the throat, and parade within vile,
for blasphemous things, that were done in exile.
We slave for thy bidding,
for thy bidding be done
To taste the blood of the first born son.

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