Behemoth. Satanica. Sermon to the Hypocrites. Zeneszám

Ohh, ye whose future is in other hands
Foul feeders, slipped are you on your excrement?
Parasites having the world lousy
Imagine you are of significance to heaven

Sensation, nutrition, mastication, procreation
This is your blind worm cycle
Know ye of nothing further than your own stench
Heaven is indifferent to your salvation or catastrophe

I, who enjoy my body
I would rather pack with wolves
Than enter your pest houses

Sensation, nutrition, mastication, procreation
This is your blind worm cycle
Know ye of nothing further than your own stench
Heaven is indifferent to your salvation or catastrophe

The sword thrust not salve I bring
The sword thrust not salve I bring
The sword thrust not salve I bring

Honest was Sodom
Your theology is a slime pit of gibberish become ethics
In your world, where ignorance and deceit constitute felicity
Everything ends so miserably besmirched with fratricidal blood

The sword thrust not salve I bring
The sword thrust not salve I bring
The sword thrust not salve I bring
The sword thrust not salve I bring