In chill dark hour when Reapers stutter,in Death’s wake, Gray Shadows mutter-whisper, tell, of life eternal,of flesh unholy, of grave made fertileThe Promised Heir, the Putrid Son,whom haunt and fiend still wait upon,Fooled god, fooled devil, and mortal kindhe gave a Mask they wear to blindthemselves as they in darkness danceto songs that tell his

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