The howling roar before the storm. A thousand footsteps thunder down at the break of dawn. The battlefield will never yield. And your death will come when you hear the pounding of the war drum. With the bone saw, I cut ‘em all. Can’t hear you pray in a body bag. With the bone saw, I cut ‘em all. No face. No name. In a shallow grave. The headless boar is now reborn. A piercing profit screaming out of a broken jaw. The revenant song. Cut out your tongue. Enemies will bleed inside. Venom in the eyes from iron lungs. And the beast won’t sleep. Feeding on skeletons of the weak. And the steel will take lives. Spinning the wheel of death and destruction. Night of the coldest knives. A battle of grit, a battle of broken spines– broken lives– scattered on the frontline. In a shallow grave, they won’t hear you pray. The Dark Rider awaits. No Face. No Name. In a shallow grave. We will cut out their tongues. First blood. First blood. We will drink it with the wormwood.