The smell of murder runs down your filthy thighs
A martyr's not a martyr if he doesn't fucking die
You can't go slow with it
Your ribs will show with it
Your skin will rip off leaving you exposed

The bezerker in his docile mode

His campaign of terror
On fetal souls ungrown
The seed of mortal wives
To keep for his own

Slumber is the hunger for the whores he has sown
In fields of wretched women who have sold him their souls
You can't grow with them
They're just thrown
Into a pile that will rot and implode

I am the harvester of woe
I live beneath this tyrants throne
I seek for that which he throws
To have for my own

The bezerker in his docile mode
The bezerker in his docile mode

I'll take what is thrown from his field of whores

His campaign of terror
On fetal souls ungrown
The seed of mortal wives
To keep for his own

The bezerker in his docile mode