Sing me songs of passing storm clouds

Of fog banks rolling in

Write a ballad for failing summer

And the winter that will not end

For frost will coat the morning

An icy gale will paint the sky

The greys and blues of coldness

Will never pass us by

On frigid wings of snow fall

The land will bathe in white

And the fires in the distance will never truly die

We will wander, weak and weary

To our frozen winter fate

But in our rage a heat burns clearly

That no cold could ever sate

For we will kill our brothers

Men of file and of rank

Freeze them all to silence

With rifle, shell, and tank

We will march and kill and hate them

We will do what we are told

For we are men emboldened

By the icy Russian cold

Let them come in greater numbers

Bring on every weapon that they can

So that we may crumble all of them

Crush them in our lands

There are still fires in the distance

Of hearth and homestead plain

They took those dwellings from us

In the heat of summer rain

So we will kill and maim and bury

We will carve a bloody path

For none have ever beaten us

When winter comes at last.