There is a primal instinct that can not be tamed
There is a destructive power that can not be named
I wallow in my filth ant treasure the stains
Branded by the blood in my veins
Hate and rade
Will not be burued in time
Death is certain
So is the wrath of mine
There is a primal instinct that can not be tamed
There is a destructive power that can not be named
An evertasting hatred
That can not be reduced or taken away
There are no limits for its desire
The wrath sustains
Scavengers, luders and fools
My inspiration and my tools
Without these empty souls
My wrath whould not unfold