Cockatrice - Funeral Mist

Locked in a constant search for a host

God’s chosen parasites gather

Beyond the burning skies of the utmost north

The descent of a sun… of flesh and blood

Spawn of damnation’s bride

Line of the cockatrice

Behold the bond-slaves of the vampire star

Behold the twin-river demon

And now a flash-flood of rot and of human tar

The temple of Mammon… still standing tall

Web woven from the trust of the viper

Rope made from the pride of a rat

Serving as knights of the illusion

Chosen as lords of the great lie

By ancient law we’ve lost our right to exist

For have we not brought upon ourselves damnation?

Yet we never expected Hell to look like this

An inferno with flames… of flesh and blood

Breed of deception’s tribe

Line of the cockatrice

Numb in the poisonous net of Sirion’s will

Stuck in the snares of the hidden hand

And as the true blood of the north is frozen still

The tower of the flame… is bound to fall

Web woven from the trust of the viper

Rope made from the pride of a rat

Serving as knights of the illusion

Chosen as lords of the great lie