Deep beneath the crimson soil Where shadows churn and tendrils coil The Worm King waits in his hollow throne A crown of roots, a feast of bone
The earth will quake, the stone will bleed The Worm King rises, his hunger feeds
Down, down, to the banquet hall Where the ceiling drips, and the shadows crawl Sing your prayers, it’s a futile thing Your soul is wine for the Worm King
And when the feast has come to an end He burrows deep, begins again So heed the tale and tread with care For the Worm King reigns beneath us all, somewhere
