Текст: World War Four. Wither.

Weak and feeble,
gaunt and drawn
Pins and needles,
crown of thorns

Bring me not your cup of pain
bring no more your dirty stain

In my sleep you come you creep
In my veins the pain runs deep

And I creep I crawl,
I seethe and I crave
I wither, I waste,
alone I rage


Bring me not your cup of pain
bring no more your dirty stain

In my sleep you come you creep
In my veins the pain runs deep

And I wither

Bring me not your cup of pain
bring no more your dirty stain

In my sleep you come you creep
In my hands the pain runs deep