Riding hell's barren wastes on my steed, this host of monstersnare my creed, and in battle we shall bleed.nBring me the head of Metatron!nWe tally for the cup of christ - the Holy Grail - in my battle armournand chain mail - when the wind blows we shall set sailnnBring me the head of Metatron!nnWhere does he dwell? No-one can tell, but its north ofnthe citadel of Londinium. Grand master of lies, dispatching his spiesnsouth to the Castle of Rhydian... North we shall ride, steel at my side,nan order from the Knights of Malta. Too long he has sat on his thronenof mockery, when we meet, there shall be slaughter!nnBring me the the head of Metatron - Now!