Sit upon the mountain top
Judging all that's mortal
Howling thunder from the east
Thrust the sword, not man nor beast
Conquering barbarian tribes
What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the life?
I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile
They fail when the broadswords sing
I was a man before I was a king
Gleaming shell of an outworn lie
You gained your crowns by heritage
But blood was the price of mine
The throne that I won by blood and sweat by CROM
I will not sell for promise of valleys filled with gold
Or threat of the halls of hell
