We strike as wolves from the thickening fog To exalt our throne ove the stars of God Lowly holy goats bare the brunt Of rabid dogmas on a stellar bearhunt Bastioned in citadels and monastic cells that smell of blessed cunt Like a convent where crosses rust From thirty dirty habits of shaved nun There where deeper needs are begged of lust And cess and less impress enough
Obtaining the ord of Our Gaurdian, Anger And Death's tunnel vision Bad thing in collision The locking of eyes and jagged antler...
