Petite histoire

A pitiful wanderer roams the world
Dense woods are now his shelter and haven
Once a noble warrior now he lost his sword
His soul aching deeply and raven

Ragged, this man sleeps in the sands
Glory pale moon with the wolves
Salty clotted wounds encircle his hands
In the tortured soul anger rules

Now an old and feeble monk
Once he won his fair lady
Dazzling was her tender song
Now his heart is stabbed and shady

Fair lady raped and laying dead in sunrays
Her pretty little tongue cut along like of a snake
Filled with the bodies of friends the vast space
What could a poor man make?

Icy asylum awaits in the mist of the rain
Dead is not proper at the triumphant ball
Funeral pyre gleams in the grain
A monk with lacuna chest awaits in the hall

Deadly abused by his so called brothers
A gory monster chosen by the perfect creature
Little children sold to slaves by the fathers
Oh but this man has found the vengeance feature
To cut the bastards throats apart
To rip the stinking bosom of these cunts
Impaling like a little pleasure for the start
To mix with mud and blood their guts

That will be too vomiting and disgraceful
A pair of pretty dandy’s fangs
Just the thing he needs
To put those filthy beasts on top of their knees