| Over Oceans Civilisations behold. | 
| The UK taking control. | 
| A naval nation of old. | 
| Built on a foundation of coal. | 
| That was taken and sold. | 
| So they could pave it with gold. | 
| To make the altars that they failed | 
| to use to pray for the souls. | 
| Who Excavated and rolled | 
| Trains into stations to mould. | 
| The global stage where they where playing a role. | 
| For those who’d would later withold. | 
| Them from the tale it was told. | 
| to fate the brave and the bold. | 
| So they could claim it was sold. | 
| Instead they lay in deprivation and cold, | 
| Poor sanitation and mold. | 
| Without a savior to follow. | 
| It’s not like they can enrol. | 
| Rebel or make an assault. | 
| HALT! | 
| Enter Evie Fry and Jacob revolt. | 
| I am a british assassin. | 
| Rather proficient in fashion. | 
| Look in the mirror, Yeah. | 
| The image is dashing. | 
| I’m sending a Templar to hell, | 
| on every single ring of Big Ben’s Bell. | 
| I am a british assassin. | 
| Me and my sister are cashing | 
| In on the cities riches, | 
| And it’s flipping cracking. | 
| I send a templar onto the grave, | 
| For every soot stained cobble from which london is paved | 
| This is a major event, | 
| So you best pay Jacob attention. | 
| In an age of innovation, invention, | 
| Evie and me are the train and the engine. | 
| Slicing straight through tension, | 
| with a hidden blade too the tendon. | 
| How clear can I state my intention? | 
| Fed up of Gentry living rent free, | 
| While peasants pay an arm and a leg for entry. | 
| Don’t send for a detective, | 
| Let me make this Elementary: | 
| I’m That Assassin other chaps try and pretend to be, | 
| My enemy’s enemy’s potentially a friend to me. | 
| From Ezio to Edward Kenway through to Henry Green, | 
| Killing is our business, | 
| and in business, we’re immensley keen. | 
| Roughing up these gangs, | 
| Although there’s nothing in my hands. | 
| But a couple of brass knuckles, | 
| And a Kukri that I swang. | 
| From the stricken slums of Southwark, | 
| To the suckers in the strand. | 
| Suddenly snuck into a cab, | 
| And I’m just another chap. | 
| Strutting, Striding over Whitechapel, | 
| Landing in lambeth with ease. | 
| Bite the apple of eden, | 
| And plant the seed in london’s streets. | 
| Come and reap the fruits of our labour, | 
| And bite the hand that feeds. | 
| We’re the gang Anglia needs, | 
| The Assassin’s Creed. | 
| We studdy war to run like water through the ruddy order. | 
| Tending to every templar starting with that bugger, | 
| Bloody Nora. | 
| I make her Blighters face my blade and die, | 
| veins are sliced. | 
| Babtised by the rain at night, | 
| They wish they where safe and dry. | 
| So crack open a case of wine, | 
| Grab your glass and raise it high. | 
| Take your time to say goodbye, | 
| Yours faithfully, Jacob Fry. | 
| I am a british assassin. | 
| Rather proficient in fashion. | 
| Look in the mirror, Yeah. | 
| The image is dashing. | 
| I’m sending a Templar to hell, | 
| on every single ring of Big Ben’s Bell. | 
| I am a british assassin. | 
| Me and my sister are cashing | 
| In on the cities riches, | 
| And it’s flipping cracking. | 
| I send a templar onto the grave, | 
| For every soot stained cobble from which london is paved | 
| There’s little more goryier thing then living in Victorian England |