| Sound the horns, grand is their call
|
| Blessing the triumph of the battle
|
| Nourished in blood, the pain of us all
|
| The outcry of our final rattles
|
| Rising in power, the glory of our kings
|
| Soaked in their moral, shame and filth
|
| Sold for a penny and sold for their means
|
| We’re bound to be choking on all their sins
|
| Thus always to tyrants, inglorious ride
|
| Sic semper tyrannis, the devil and his bride
|
| A gush of blood, settled our tales
|
| Written by hands of a monster
|
| The branches now rooted and grown on our trails
|
| Bloomed from the hurt of our fathers
|
| Rising in power, the glory of our kings
|
| Soaked in their moral, shame and filth
|
| Sold for a penny and sold for their means
|
| We’re bound to be choking on all their sins
|
| Thus always to Tyrants, inglorious ride
|
| Sic semper Tyrannis, the devil and his bride
|
| «They will hang from the oldest oak on morrow
|
| And a pale moon’ll light the sky
|
| Their necks will crack — no one’ll feel any sorrow
|
| And a crooked cross will stand there wry»
|
| Nightfall — this will be their last nightfall
|
| Nightfall — this will be their last nightfall
|
| Thus always to tyrants, inglorious ride
|
| Sic semper tyrannis, the devil and his bride
|
| «They will hang from the oldest oak on morrow
|
| And a pale moon’ll light the sky
|
| Their necks will crack — no one’ll feel any sorrow
|
| And a crooked cross will stand there wry»
|
| Nightfall — this will be their last nightfall |