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It's too late the oblates
They send me to my fate
There's no hope that damn pope
Won't save me from the flames
As the crowd goes wild
The mass hysteria is boiling up
It's 1689 the black robed monks
Are baying for my blood

Burn witch burn
Burn witch burn

It's all hate they berate
Whilst laughing at my pain
They don't know carrion crows
That evil is their game
As I burn and scream
They think my infliction will cleanse their souls
Of a devil invented by those Christian dogs

Burn witch burn
Burn witch burn

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