In the nocturn hours by Albion's seas
Mist-filled beings call to me
Do you recall, how we stood tall?
In league with Satan one and all!
When the forest burned, with the pentagram
And the lustful danced to the pipes of Pan
The people there bent to my will
And with their souls I chain them still!

My friends are building, the wickerman
The doom-filled mourning of the grey sabbat
The children calling Satan's name
The past is falling pagan daze yeah!

The endless mirth, of the sacrifice
Endeared to lunacy I took your life
When all we heard, was the [bad word] beat loud
Under Satan we stood proud [bad word]  come [bad word]  come to the sabbat my children!
Under the mists of doom we walk the silver path
Through the [bad word] and negated moment of eternity
And, upon fey stone altars, reared by long dead giants
Exert upon our countenance, the Grin of the Grey Goat!

And so we leave this spectacle
with all its strange pageantry
For I fear I may write no more
The wind howls at my window
and there are demons at my door
All my youth, and adult life
I have striven the Devil to raise
And now at last the Hornéd [bad word] forth, my soul to claim!