Sons of Perdition - Witches | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• Sons of Perdition
• Witches

Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
Withered crops and skin that itches.
Pagan prayers howled at the moon.
The hour of their destruction looms.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
They live not by our fair wishes.
Abhorrent gestures and ancient words, poison dram and bitter herbs.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches,
backs bent ‘neath our righteous switches.
They serve not the god we do
so we break them under wheel and boot. Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
In the caves and in the thickets.
They send vile prayers into the night.
Under their curse, we do indict.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
They wallow in ill-gotten riches.
The butcher’s blade will cut and carve so that our people shall not starve.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
The people have made their decision
to cut them down in squalid sin;
to exterminate their kith and kin.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
Hang like fruit, necks broke and twisted.
Cast them into the abyss, lest they call up a dread eclipse.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
Dead eyes bulge and death nerve twitches.
We light them up in offering.
We heed not their cries of suffering.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches
burn in piles or bloat in ditches.
We set their bodies all ablaze
to cleanse the county of their ways.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches
pay not heed to our religion,
so blood is spilt and limbs are sawed
for ours is such a jealous god.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.,
buried deep in wells and trenches
where they’ll whisper not another sound
as they rot and run into the ground.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches
with their inner sight and sundry stenches.
A shuffling horde of Satan’s slaves,
they claw out of their moldy graves.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
All that we have left are wishes
which we scream into empty skies,
devoid of ears, devoid of eyes.
Magicians, witches, crones and bitches.
We’ve left behind our superstitions.
We petition the celestial throne
as they tear our flesh, as they break our bones. Magicians, witches, crones and bitches, pointing fingers, spiteful liches.
Even now they don’t repent but feast on vengeance long undreamt.