Stalking those who ripe with child
Have become so naive
To slake the thirst of this necrophile
The bearer is to bleed

One by one they're plucked away
In the shadows he retrieves
Though they wake alive, can't help but cry
Never will they leave

Shrieks and howls echo through the halls, soon tombs of blood and stone
Try to dig with fingers, salted tears are shed, for they're grinded to the bone

Gathered to the chamber, where air smells of rot
The first one is lucky, as through the spine she's shot
The second, third and fourth are strangled, ripped and hacked
The final bearing witness to abortion, and grilling of the fetus

Feast Of The Stillborns
From a mother's loving grip, a child is torn
Feast Of The Stillborns
To the practice of infanticide his life he has sworn

An infant, fresh from womb, unspoiled, to be fried
No other breeds of flesh will do, only one can satisfy
Onwards he strides, into the night off to find new prey
Ever searching for most beautiful brides who will meet their end today