Funeral Mist — Cockatrice

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Locked in a constant search for a host
God’s chosen parasites gather
Beyond the burning skies of the utmost north
The descent of a sun…of flesh and blood

Spawn of damnation’s bride
Line of the cockatrice

Behold the bond-slaves of the vampire star
Behold the twin-river demon
And now a flash-flood of rot and of human tar
The temple of Mammon…still standing tall

Web woven from the trust of the viper
Rope made from the pride of a rat
Serving as knights of the illusion
Chosen as lords of the great lie

By ancient law we’ve lost our right to exist
For have we not brought upon ourselves damnation?
Yet we never expected Hell to look like this
An inferno with flames…of flesh and blood

Breed of deception’s tribe
Line of the cockatrice

Numb in the poisonous net of Sirion’s will
Stuck in the snares of the hidden hand
And as the true blood of the north is frozen still
The tower of the flame…is bound to fall

Web woven from the trust of the viper
Rope made from the pride of a rat
Serving as knights of the illusion
Chosen as lords of the great lie