They live beyond the coils of space, where they wring your hands and twist your face.
They tie you up and burn your feet, they’ll pull your nails and taste your meat.
They slice your flesh and drain your blood, and rip you up all covered in mud.
They’ll whistle and howl to your family’s mourn, the men of Bhaal and the children of ‘Gorn.
They’ll creep in the dark and laugh in the night, grabbing you quick with all their might.
They’ll strike your eyes and cut your hair, then hang you up all wet and bare.
They’ll dance all night to a hurried beat, far from the light of a burning heat.
They’ll toast you up and make you torn, the men of Bhaal and the children of ‘Gorn.
And all at last they’ll shake you down, a jubilant crowd dragging you to the town.
A parade they’ll make of flesh and bone, then lay you atop a street of stone,
to gather ’round with all hands wringing, all gathered ’round and quietly singing,
“We feast on all who are dead and born, we are the men of Bhaal, the children of ‘Gorn”.