Attila The Hun

Attila The Hun


When winter comes and the bitter winds blow,
it's sad as autumn slips into the night.
Down by the river geese land in a row
while blood spattered snow's a terrible sight.

Hooves of dark horses then pound on the road.
One sword held high by " Attila The Hun."
He is the master of death and forebode,
no losses to count when victory's won.

Death is a tyrant that sleeps in our bed,
life passes by like the torrents of rain.
The full moon and stars seem quiet and dead.
Sorrow lives on in a silent refrain.

Here we stand ready with sword and with bow
for those who gave in the cold wind and snow.