Ha-Satan Dêofol - Årabrot

Under a dying olympic flame

They dance gaily around yonder maypole

They hammer nails to the cross

And the blood on the floor is yours

You may put me in a barrel, roll my skull down the hill

Tar and feather for the non-conformist

The blood on the floor is yours

I hoist my half-dead wife

Hold her tightly in my arms

I dream I kill her for my own concerns

The blood on the floor is really mine

Protrusive eyes, a fixed gaze

I arose in a haze

To open for my very lover

Hands dripping

Fingers flowing

Under a dying olympic flame

Life revolves around yonder maypole

The gates will never really open

And the blood on the floor is yours

She’ll wail hysterical orgasms

And laugh at tormentor’s scourge

Chains and fetters for the formalist

The blood on the floor is yours

In beautifully groomed gardens

The gates of life opens upon death

A monstrous and hideous passing

The blood on the floor is really mine