• Like a crimson tide of death,
    Rise the blazing sky so red.
    Marching on without a breath,
    Are her hordes of hungry dead,
    In a world of darkest night.
    Her scythe will sing through the air,
    As the living stay the fight,
    Their blood pouring off her hair.
    In a life of torture and hate,
    She was born shining and neat.
    Always denies she her calling fate,
    Frozen life her crowning feat.
    Now the light of day will never be seen,
    Under the icy grasp of the Lich Queen.