I.
Under the fullmoon, into the swamp you lurk...
In search of the horrid secrets of hell
To the house made of Virgin's bones and hides
The abode of the witch, of whence home return...

II.
Moss hangs from the roof like a corpse's hair
Cypress roots stick through the scum like fingers
Even reptile horrors do shrink in FEAR from it
But all too curious, you knock upon Her door...

Into your foolish mind my nightmare spells shall sleep
And deep under the black swamp-waters, you shall sleep...