Dead In The Dırt - Bastards Of The Bleak

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