Deep beneath the crimson soil
Where shadows churn and tendrils coil
The Worm King waits in his hollow throne
A crown of roots, a feast of bone
The earth will quake, the stone will bleed
The Worm King rises, his hunger feeds
Down, down, to the banquet hall
Where the ceiling drips, and the shadows crawl
Sing your prayers, it’s a futile thing
Your soul is wine for the Worm King
And when the feast has come to an end
He burrows deep, begins again
So heed the tale and tread with care
For the Worm King reigns beneath us all, somewhere
