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Riding Hell's barren wastes,
on my steed,
this host of monsters
are my creed,
and in battle,
we shall bleed.

Bring me the head of Metatron!

We tally for the cup of Christ,
The Holy Grail,
in my battle armour,
and chain mail.
When the wind blows,
we shall set sail

Bring me the head of Metatron!

Where does he dwell?
No one can tell,
but it’s north of the citadel of Londinium.
Grand master of lies,
dispatching his spies,
south to the Castle of Rhydian

North we shall ride,
steel at my side,
an order from
the Knights of Malta.
Too long he has sat,
on his throne of mockery.
When we meet,
there shall be slaughter!

Bring me the the head of Metatron
Now!

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