He Who Sits Upon The Black Throne Of Angmar / The Morgul Blade

Forged in Angmar, far to the north
The dreaded Witch King draws it forth
A wretched blade
Forged from hate
To become a wraith
Is your fate
Cunning design breaks the tip
Leaving behind a seeking chip
To your heart, the shard proceeds
Your soul withers like dying leaves

Nazgul hunt with ill intent
Try to flee but your will is spent
Your body seized
You are afraid
Your flesh is pierced by the Morgul Blade

Seek the Weed to ease the pain
Athelas herb will slow the drain
Numb the wound
Stem the bleed
But nothing stops the Nazgul’s greed
Witch King claims what he was after
The air is pierced with silent laughter
You can’t ignore
Sauron’s call
Forever enslaved as a nameless thrall

Nazgul hunt with ill intent
Try to flee but your will is spent
Your body seized
You are afraid
Your flesh is pierced by the Morgul Blade