Cutting through the tendon
Roasted on a spit
Stalked then slaughtered upon capture
Dragged through forest sticks
Caught from every angle
None of them survive
Collecting captured bodies
To be devoured by the tribe
Sacrament of death confronted
Becoming divine
Skin hung high to be our banners
Tanning human hides
Roasted slowly skin starts boiling
Sculptures made of spine
Hunting those who trespass
On this holy land of mine
Riding through the night
Tracking precious prey
Worn from lack of sleep for now
But dead before day
When they're found they cower
For they know they're next
Sawing off their fingers
Kept as trophies round my neck
Sacred calling for our mauling
We'll be blessed again
Sacrificed then kill by torture
Fed to hordes of men
Smiling on us our gods
Beg us to murder again
Heed their word and only follow
For what they have said