歌词坐标
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Cold chiseled dagger
Of necrolore a spear of might
Wounds running deeper
Cuts are of devils teeth
Master cold, lower me down
To the desolation that carries my name
To the worlds that cower beneath me
My divine perversion twisted black
The northern face of these hills
The bitter face of disgust
With murderous precision
With a demon cloak of armor
Violently territorial
This lair of damnation
In November's rusted chains
By the boiling blood of saint
The dark will cut it's mark
