I venture far from home with iron grasp well in clasp to clutch the throats of our ancient enemy, striking up or down we crush, swinging hammers or axes barbarically to mutiate the holy adversary. Through snowy ice we march. Thouhg desert sun we march. The night breeze is our soul as we massacre throughout and the blood on our warring hands is a feeling beyond all feeling which empowers us to infernal warfare. Diging pits, we are sweaty and stinky with Aryan pride, for without caution they will fall to our grim of death-To ancient steel and krieghand, inferior races abide. Impaling countlessly with white hands of might, in battle no mongrel shall halt our merciless plight. Through the onslaught winds shall change the tide. Unheavenly unstoppable, we piss down the mouths of mongrels, shitting on their remains, raising the banner with hands of war. Know us by the mark that shall inherit this world again-To the ancient steel and krieghand, inferior races abide...

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.