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A grove so dank,

you could distil the air

A' magical sphere in the woods of despair

Atmosphere you can cut with a blade

Don't give in to temptation

- ain't no love for you here

Oh, don't mind the bones

few rites will make you feel at home

Where dead spirits dance

in the crossing of air, sea and land

Fire fares us in to trance

Enter the grotto of the damned

Here it rains through the roof

your lay infested

with lice, bugs, and booze

Your daily bread may be far from fresh

but the rotten stench indicates

you ain't dead yet