| The warren is empty tonight,
|
| Blood spills on toiled ground
|
| Fur will hang in ragged clumps
|
| Upon the hedgerows
|
| Peace is lost to us now,
|
| A fettered ideal x 2
|
| They are the warmongers
|
| And they will make our laws
|
| A paw will fall upon the weak
|
| They will mark the day
|
| In death we make our charge, our last lament x2
|
| To turn the tide, in our numbers;
|
| The final will fall — they have our fear
|
| We have the will
|
| A battle cry will sound out
|
| Shrill against the night
|
| And with it our retribution;
|
| The warren is empty x 5 |