You think these chains can hold the sea?

You think your cage was made for me?

I am the storm you thought you’d tamed—

The wolf you trapped, but never maimed.

Your god is weak—a bleeding corpse,

Who preaches pity and remorse.

My gods are thunder, blade, and flame!

You think I fear your hollow shame?

You—with your soft, un-calloused hands,

Who rule these tame and timid lands—

You dare to judge a son of Odin?

Your bloodline’s weak, your courage’s frozen!

I’ve taken more from better men—

I’ll break your walls and burn them then!

Your women screamed my Viking name—

You hide behind your cross and claim…

That you have won? You’ve only caught

What your own cowardice has wrought!

My brothers come—you’ll hear their drums—

Your church bells silent, your hope undone.

Go on—then hang me. Make a show.

Let all your trembling people know

You fear a unarmed, chained-up foe!

My death will be a seeds I sow—

And when my kin sail up this stream,

You’ll drown in blood—you’ll choke on scream.

They’ll spare no one—not child nor priest—

And make of you a gruesome feast.

So stare, you weakling. Kneel and pray.

Your heaven’s just a dying day.

My Valhall waits—with endless mead!

Your god is dead. And so… proceed.