"Ironic. In death, your men serve me."
—Trace Legacy, TwoKinds
Awake O Dead, for there can be no rest for ye beneath the earth. Let the splintered bones burrow from the grave pall. Let cold fingers grip time-worn blades, and unseeing eyes survey the fields of slaughter. For your time has come once more. And the dead shall walk.
Once greeted as heroes
Now treated as foes wherever we go
Recruiting more warriors
The hordes of undead march at our command
Now mankind will pay
From this very day
Every man on earth will curse his birth
We control your souls
you'll end up like ghouls
—Birds of War Sabaton