| Carrion my name | 
| For those who choose to mouth the curse | 
| A tragic serenade | 
| With Judas in my stride | 
| The Gothic halls of shame | 
| Where statues coldly hold no worse | 
| Than the murders I reclaim | 
| From a dark, forsaken time | 
| Kissing heaven, spent | 
| He wipes lips free of his hectic discharge | 
| Wishing to repent | 
| For the brute that ravaged free | 
| In slight hands beauty weeps | 
| Conquest’s deep methodical screwing | 
| Hurt repeatedly | 
| Like the world wound at his feet | 
| Dirge Inferno | 
| As it is written, damn it | 
| So let it be wrung | 
| From throats of those in overthrow | 
| The past at last has come | 
| A savage bit without respite | 
| Pervades the freezing air | 
| This winter chill, grist for his mill | 
| If tears of joy will blear elsewhere | 
| And church bells drown in the cracks of doom | 
| The storms above us hew | 
| As lightning runs like bifurcate tongues | 
| Deflowering two by two | 
| Hissing, malcontent | 
| He storms the skies on electric discharge | 
| Pissing in contempt | 
| On the effigies of the weak | 
| Killing all resolve | 
| The great beast simmers, his scarlet women | 
| Spit their vitriol | 
| On the terrified face of peace | 
| Dirge Inferno | 
| As it is written, damn it | 
| So let it be wrung | 
| From throats of those in overthrow | 
| Our past at last has come | 
| A hellbound heart, the rose and thorn | 
| Have locked to hasten blood | 
| The moon disrobes, to harden droves | 
| Of legions pouring | 
| These rivers press, his breath adorns | 
| Senates and enemy seats | 
| Whilst his power takes as ingratitude | 
| The writhing of the weak | 
| «Wormwood my name | 
| The poisoned star that fell to earth | 
| And blistered free of shame | 
| In the pits of self-rebirth | 
| Now those caves become a farret | 
| Overseeing endless barracks | 
| As the waters turn to claret | 
| And the Vatican satins burn |