March through the shade of the weeping boughs.
All lament, fist and blade and no shame.
This weapon is ready and a curse is at my lips.
To cut and howl at all of that creed whom cross my path
for the first and the final time.
As brave as they may, it is a surge into the maw.
I will summon the will of pure, bursting hatred
and be blind to the humanity of my snake-like foe.
My work will be so, so rough and when I am done,
when I hear no more man, strong or riddled with moans,
then I will fall to the ground, a husk,
completely spent and probably to my grave!