Pity is a vile mistress. A cloak woven with shame. Bow to nothing but the strength Of willfully planted seed. Seek the blood that ails you. Carry the scythe proudly across the plain. Call forth the host of Jehovah and say with victory his name. Lyse the sinew of this master. Bestow his flesh with the gift of blade. The sky sings our praises. Raining upon us his blood. Rendering our fields turgid with the marrow of his bone. The master is known. Three times a flight the blaze. We taunt his name. By the master we are not created. The master is whom we create. Fear not the master. Be not the slave. Judge our forefathers at the tide of even. Repeat the words of common folk whose throats are constricted. Show no mercy to those who. open their mouths and eat of life. And live again after death everyday.
Lyrics submitted by uselessaffluence