We fight, with nightmares made real, enduring strife
In madness and the empty dark, we wrestle our destiny
All of the demons who haunt us, until morning light
We will make endless war, as prisoners of our time
Warring races of vipers and legions of scorpions
Make war with toxic lies and poisonous strikes
Now comes a harvest of bodies, a harvest dire
As flesh changes tone from living pink to deathly gray
We love to make war, ignoring cost and the scars
Soon we welcome Azrael, the angel of death
For his arrival is destined, our death is final
All unresolved issues of our life are made moot
We might live before we die, but we will meet death
And in the measure of time, death comes rather soon
