He is he, who is steel and bone, flesh and faith, blood and thunder.
We are we, who are death incarnate, Black and Gold, Red and Black.
Our blades are sharp as thus it flows, the red and misty missed, we mourn our dead.
The yearning grows as such it is, the pain and thus, the memories linger.
We fight and die, and fight again,
To keep our place,
To live our lives.
To theology again, to deathtoll bells,
We smile and grin,
Bone sundering kings.
