Wolf-Moon 8 - the Winter Feast,
The fires are reaching to the skies;
Trapped inside that blazing hall,
The Aryan Warrior-King thus dies.
An ancient tale comes back to life,
A myth renewed that ends this age;
The killing of the Warrior-King,
His spirit freed, new war to wage.
Mark this fitting Viking's death,
When flames are reaching to the skies;
The phoenix rising from the ashes,
As an old world falls and dies.
Awakened Saxon, hear the call,
The time has come to fight;
Woden beckoning to his kin,
His message - 'Might is Right!'
Waken now the Will-to-Power,
Within the Sons of Ing;
Avenge we now the wrongs we bear,
And the slaying of the King.
Rise now the Spirit of the Wolf,
This land engulfed in flames;
By Fire and Sword the old will fall,
A s-laughter no one blames.
Angry, hooded, masked and wild,
The English Youth shall rise;
Fettered by the Will of Woden,
Light the darkened skies.
Wolf-wild, Woden's Warriors,
Led by the Frenzied One;
Laughing as the world doth fall,
And victory is won.
Then shall we ne'er forget,
The brave who fought and died;
N'er shall their spirit ever die,
We hold our heads in pride.