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...