March through the shade of the weeping boughs
All lament, fist and blade and no shame
This weapon is ready and a curse is at my lips
To cut and howl at all of that creed whom cross my path
For the first and the final time
As brave as they may, it is a surge into the maw
I will summon the will of pure, bursting hatred
And be blind to the humanity of my snake-like foe
My work will be so, so rough and when I am done
When I hear no more man, strong or riddled with moans
Then I will fall to the ground, a husk
Completely spent and probably to my grave!
