The Berserker's Field of Whores

The smell of murder runs down your filthy thighs A martyr's not a martyr if he doesn't fucking die You can't go slow with it Your ribs will show with it Your skin will rip off leaving you exposed The bezerker in his docile mode His campaign of terror On fetal souls ungrown The seed of mortal wives To keep for his own Slumber is the hunger for the whores he has sown In fields of wretched women who have sold him their souls You can't grow with them They're just thrown Into a pile that will rot and implode I am the harvester of woe I live beneath this tyrants throne I seek for that which he throws To have for my own The bezerker in his docile mode The bezerker in his docile mode I'll take what is thrown from his field of whores His campaign of terror On fetal souls ungrown The seed of mortal wives To keep for his own The bezerker in his docile mode