He must imbibe, he must throttle their fear.
Father to tribe, demons hold him dear.
This drunkard devil, this fiend to sin.
What cage shall they next hold him in?

His throat is parched! Their vessels full.
If he took one bite, would it be harmful.
These animals, they litter the streets,
For what good are they, except to eat.

He roams the towns, he roams the dale.
To satisfy him, no man may prevail.
His cold red eyes, his calloused hands.
He will reduce the world, to empty sands...

The marching procession of his feet.
Mounting, fleeting, death, upon all he meats.
Blood drips from his hair, tears in his eyes
To this feral man, no one tends to his cries.

There he may ****, and here he may choke.
Blood he may drink, as if milk were a joke,
But why pursue his death, when you are worse?
You are no victim, he suffers insatiable thirst.