The Battle Call of the Morni

A poem about a fictional barbarian tribe.

Do not throw a yoke across my back
for you will never break my iron will.
Nor will you tread my liberated lands
beneath your boot shod heel.

Heavens! Keep your holy men!
They've no place in this wild hell.
We pray not to soft, forgiving gods,
our religion is forged from steel.

Send your armored legions,
knights and footmen ordered well.
Our sharp axe heads will great them
and cast them from our hills.

My blood is fire in my veins
stoked by a pride you cannot quell.
I am a freeborn son of the Morni.
Forever in Grey Fogg I will dwell.