Lyrics

Cursed are the grounds for your sakes
In sorrow shall you eat of them all the days of your life
Full of thorns an thistles and venom snakes
In the sweat of your faces there shall be nothing but strife

This shall be the manner of the priest who shall reign over you
And if you don’t watch out there will be no one else to turn to
All we’ll remember is what we call superstition
Being nothing else than the curse of tradition

He will take your servants, your asses and put them to his work
He will take your maids like a madman until they go berserk
He will take your wives and will treat them as a whore
He will take your seed and will use it as an instrument of war
He will take your fathers and kill them or appoint them as slaves
He will take your mothers and let them dig their own graves
He will take your daughters to rape them relentlessly by all odds
He will take your sons and offer them needlessly to the gods

This shall be the manner of the priest who shall reign over you
And if you don’t watch out there will be no one else to turn to
All we’ll remember is what we call superstition
Being nothing else than the curse of tradition