Ruling in the centre of hell
bodies creeping to your feet
burning whips in your hands
thrashing the rotting to pieces of meat
that keeps rising below the ground
melts the dying in a roasting sound
commandes by the black horde
Whishing you were not born
when his claws rip your guts
his piss bite hard down your flesh
no carcass left for the rats
His eyes will freeze you mentally
and a fist rides through your head
when burning hands grab for your heart
you will wish that you were dead
