The Forest Is Our Throne, Not Yours

Deceivers
Fathering false black metal
Spinning lies of the Wild
And of the Beast

So Unholy
In your concrete and plaster tombs
Preaching to masses
Of would be darkened souls

Would be darkened souls
Spinning lies of the Wild
Spinning lies of the Beast

Posers
Stealing paint from our faces
Copying what it is ours by design
Given by our Great Unhallowed Spirit

Slander
Your rebellion of the month
Has brushed too close to the truth
You have touched too close to the end

What is ours by design
What is ours by design
And now, the end
And now, the end
Too close to the end
Too close to the truth
Too close to the end