Stank lagoons with grasping claws a serpent have released
From dungeons of despair and farce to feast on brackish hearts 

The walls a tint of crimson fierce speak of vacant names
Beheld by missive magot-pies, prophetic in their crow 

In vested misery, thy devils [bad word] thee black
Not all great Neptune's oceans may ever cleanse your robes 

For Weyward Sisters guide the hand, the hand that held the scythe
To lands undiscerned in tongue, Cimmerians have roamed 

Infidels of tawny hue cannot hide behind
The cross that bore a [bad word] child and reigns in fiery fear 

No ends of earth may stifle choirs oracular from magot-pies
Perched upon a hungry vault to witness serpent's jaws 
Mandibles, [bad word] tear through flesh
Grant the mercy shown to those in dungeons of the past 

Forsaken hymn cacophonous concluded long and drawn
To realms of stank lagoons retreats Leviathan to find repose