Wytchdance

Katharsis

The wytches, wytches black they are
 They feast, they feast upon man's heart
 Their lorde has summoned them by spell
 To gather, in his realm to dwell

 Creatures of death, creatures of night
 Conjure the endless evil force
 Who knoweth no mercy nor'll give in
 To those who seek to ban its source

 The wytches dance in limping line
 The blood of holy is their wyne
 The bones of infants are their throne
 They have no fear, they won't atone

 Satanickrite shall find no end
 To end all life, from hell they're sent
 His great return, the only goal
 For this, they shall reap every soul

 So go! and meet the master's ram
 Girl, come to join these women
 Become his servant whilst thou canst
 Drink blood, conceive his semen

 Cauldrens are boiling, mysteries red
 Of venom and spyces to wayke up the dead
 Gathering hellwhores,
 and then comes their lorde

 Their dark minds shall follow,
 Their flesh is to rot
 Will rot in a dreame of his splendour and grace
 Remember the sabbath, another one waith

 Embrace lustful wrayths exstasy wet and hot
 By nighte-fall they swarm out to head for the spot
 Where altars of stone, blood-stained, wayte under trees
 A place long forgotten,
 So others can't see

 Far out in the woods servants vyle
 Have their shrine
 To mate with their master
 In nockturnal rite

 An orgy of riches and infinite lust
 Lorde Satan is generous
 Yet obey him they must

 Doe all what he sayeth, most of all,
 Bring him lives, their duty they
 Followe by grim sacrifices

 New souls must be draught,
 Full of innocence and youth,
 Into their communion,
 Tonight it'll be thou
 Initiation to unspeakable cults

 So do what they wish, fuck the priest
 From the vault and next, take the
 Daggers and open thine veins
 Some sharp lethall cuts,
 Watch a scene so insane

 The ground seems to open,
 Thy body is torne
 The knife-blade was poisoned
 and thou art reborn

 Cause out of the deep lift
 The spirits of olde
 and drink from thine pale wrist
 and see what thou sold

 The contract is signed,
 Now thou art one of the wytches
 A vicious black core
 In a shell dead and colde

 Inside the red circle,
 A sister of lore
 A knower of wonders
 Unthinkable before
 Thou slaughterst a childe
 For it's the demonlorde's will
 Thy pleasure is sin
 and thy mission -- to kill