They wait for the sandmen to do their work,
Then from abandoned churches, they emerge;

At night when our young ones sleep, in their beds,
When our dearest beloveds, beside us rest;

With cruel-sharp knives of coldest steel,
In front of their blood gods, they pray and kneel;

It'll only be one night, their crimson oath,
To take our women, children, maybe both;

And when they're ready, we'll see the light,
That there is no use to cower in fright.

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