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Men of the North

de Scythian

Serpents of the Gods call upon your hypocrites
Pray to the fates and the master of the odds
Cry out in ruinous shouts; your end is near!

From your defecated thrones we have feasted on your bones
To mark your pitiful end
Oh lords of mockery, clamour and shout!

Master of the Odds
Your long unquestioned authority fades to obscurity
Your servants led to the flame, your name is ground to the dust!

We hold the spear of destiny
Cursed with the thirst of a never-ending deicidal lust
We hunger for your sacrificial blood!

Your ruinous corpses draped in red
You speak your names to the keeper of the dead
O spirits of murder, vengeance, agony
Howl out in glorious victory
And scream these words aloud!

The laws of Gods and men are nothing
We are the lions of the east!
The sons of blasphemy around us
Your hated relics at our feet

Heed us, kings and high pretenders
This song written in your name
Forgotten are your teachings
Ashen are your houses
Unrivalled is your shame

Die! Serpents of the Gods
Die! Master of the odds
Die! Your time is over, your end is near

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