Scorn And Death

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!