Battle scarred and battle worn,
Holding still his banner torn.
Day of unrest, Night of no sleep,
Ailed by wounds that run bone deep.
Warrior stands with sword in hand,
Vigilantly guarding his piece of land.
The enemy come by day and night,
Still giving all, warrior stands to fight.
Paying no mind to his own pain,
He will not quit till all are slain.
Through cries of rage a wariror is born,
Following the call of the battle horn.
Ever loyal to those who lead,
He charges forth like a wild stead.
Clashing sword, iron and steal,
Disgust for his enemy is all hell feal.
Into harms way, Not afraid to die,
Never letting fear shine through his eye.
With blood stained sword he desimates his foe,
The craft of war is all he'll know.
And when its time for the warrior to die,
He will stand by God, as a warrior in the sky.
Field of pain, field of sweat, field of weak men's woes.
Field of blood, field of death, field of fallen foes.
In the field my craft of war i hone.
In blood soaked grass, dirt and stone.
The battle field speaks, her voice is clear.
Calling forth mine enemy, filling him with fear.
I woft the air, the sent of death all around.
I count the dead corpses offered on sacred ground.
This is my holy place, my temple my shrine.
For in its grass are bodies whos fates are mine.
The heat of battle, it strengthens my soul.
The blood shed on this altar will make me whole.