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Through vast fields made of grain and sand
We march upon this scorched land
Hailing the armored upon his steed
As our guide does take the lead
Offering us what little meat and ale
This place smells of blood that's always quite stale
My Liege, he says to us, why forth troubled eyes?
As I plunge my blade I cry, never trust a paladin's lies
Souls of men are but feeble
when carnal pleasures aren't concealed
In these times who determines the meaning of the word friend
when a warrior cannot trust the paladin
Observing around as I wipe my sword clean
A Gallery Of Rogues present themselves to me
My brothers in death only act how they know
As they split them completely apart from head down to toe
With a final breath one asks, what of my kin?
Leaning in, I whisper upon him, take up your bounty with the paladin