Riding hell's barren wastes on my steed, this host of monsters   are my creed, and in battle we shall bleed.   Bring me the head of Metatron!   We tally for the cup of christ - the Holy Grail - in my battle armour   and chain mail - when the wind blows we shall set sail      Bring me the head of Metatron!      Where does he dwell? No-one can tell, but its north of   the citadel of Londinium. Grand master of lies, dispatching his spies   south to the Castle of Rhydian... North we shall ride, steel at my side,   an order from the Knights of Malta. Too long he has sat on his throne   of mockery, when we meet, there shall be slaughter!      Bring me the the head of Metatron - Now!