Bastards of the Bleak - Dead In The Dirt

Our cult our rite

This last light dies

From the desolate black

Flies to the cross… a knife in his back

In this ceremony of towering flames

Bastards of the bleak, exsanguinate the weak

Carve your name and haunt their mind

Forever ingrained in every memory

With hands clasped, we encircle

To worship the darkness, we create

Spill their blood, collapse their faith

A reflection of your undying hate