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In the old room he’s listening, he’s a Chief of a

murderous tribe.

Thery’re violent executors with marked faces

Imperfect death machines, only one mission: dirty

job

A cold blooded ravenous wolves pack, they move

quickly and silently

Discipline battalions: Insubordinate, rejected,

fatherless

Illegitimate Reich’s children

Malicious laughters break nights of war, They’re

Door and Little Brother

They joke before slaughter an enemy

Then they hurts themselves and growl at each other

The Old Hun stands up, armed he glares with blooded

eyes

And everyone goes to his place

Only the Old Hun can, Only the Old Hun is able

Old Hun, chief of a murderous tribe