Harvesting dead for our dinner spread
To the victors, the fruit of the spoiled

A quartet of gorelords, reigning in blood
Sweetmeats are ablated in a sanguine flood
Survivors of the melee are illaqueated
Deigned as pabulation, impinguated

Raise the stakes, leave them all impaled
Flagitations have all failed
Raise the stakes, leave them all impaled
Tapered pikes piercing entrails

Trodding down a path, beset on each side
By the ganched and their horrisonant cries
Astride cacuminated poles, they point the way
To an arescent feast celebrating victory

Heartily whiff a myriad of stenches
Putrescine platters brought forth by wenches
Cruor bullion, the soup du jour
Into tankards, claret is poured
Crapulous carousing, the de rigueur

Dehiscent lungs bellow gargled parlance
Supplying ambience

Caitiff factions sullied our names
Beseiging their lands, we staked our claims
With their progeny dead and women caught
Now the impaled shall rot

Culled from a paladin's remains
The redolant guts of peditastellus slain
Culinary skills are put to the test
For a seven corpse meal we can't wait to ingest

From on high, the beleagured cry of suffering
Stuck like pigs on acicular sticks, uncontrolled blubbering
Atop gavelocks, punctured gralloch haemorrhage, therein
Their final view of this motley crew eating finewed kin

[solo: "Slow Death" by S.C. McGrath]

Sean, rip off their flesh
Ross, bring me a glass of blood
Raul, prepare to make carcass stew

Raise the stakes, leave them all impaled
No body left unnassailed
Raise the stakes, leave them all impaled
These life times we have curtailed

Gullets full of tripe harvested from foes
Through haughty engorgement, their flesh we have disposed
Skeletons lanced and left dangling in the air
Of our wrathful scourge, a grave reminder