Such is my fate
To be the harbinger of doom
For little more than can be reasoned out
And every reason that might be conceived
To twist the knife twixt guilty ribs
And chaos usher into this most desperate world
A violent birth of war and death
To bring the heroes to their knees
The craven man, a spineless pawn
Shall be the weak I prey upon
The noble knight, a drunken knave
To temprous cup becomes the slave
The virtuous maid, a wonton whore
Shan’t be the purest anymore
And oh, most reverend Moorish Black
I’ll draw the cross upon thy back
And break each piece of thy good name
In jealous flood, and prideful flame
Thou shalt be damned in thine own shame
For what hast thou become?
Oh, great one! Oh thou Venetian Prince!
When didst the honour thou hadst sought on fiery field
Be rendered up for cloths and cakes and woman’s touch?
I recall thy visage clad in glorious war
To tear the Moors in mercenary blood
Thine own kin to disembowel!
The bitter cup of chaos ever filled
By thy most priest like hands
With crimson blood to brazen brim
And over flowing to the seas
And run their deepest currents red with death
Oh! How far the mighty are fallen!
And thus, great Moor, for these grave sins
My quest for dark vengeance begins