I. Under the fullmoon, into the swamp you lurk... In search of the horrid secrets of hell To the house made of Virgin's bones and hides The abode of the witch, of whence home return...
II. Moss hangs from the roof like a corpse's hair Cypress roots stick through the scum like fingers Even reptile horrors do shrink in FEAR from it But all too curious, you knock upon Her door...
Into your foolish mind my nightmare spells shall sleep And deep under the black swamp-waters, you shall sleep...
