I have but one desire
Let it be
A Pestilence upon your lands
And a plague upon all your houses
It is my wish
To enslave all your people
The soil enriched with their blood
To burn your places of worship
And our gods shall become your gods

All that lives on the vine is rotten
May your wines be foul
And your bread as the flesh of the dead
An ill wind to bring nought but decay
And the stench of your slaughtered kin
Your slaughtered kin
Dead

The stench of your slaughtered kin
[?]
Every last one of you

The newborn, borne with fear in their eyes
And slavery in their limbs
As tools to build a new empire
We are your cross to bear
You shall be a martyred people
But as sure as the night follows the day
You shall be
A dead
Dead
Dead
People