White clad mystic bearded olds walks along towards the oaks
For a secret sake they gather around, they give no answers
Under moon and stars they sacrifice
Blood of cattle flows upon the stones
Climb the age old sacred oak, cut the mistle, kill the bulls
Make an elixir of antidote, to cure the unborn child
Heal us all, celebrate the mistletoe
On the sixth day of moon, the pagan ritual, has begun
Surrounded by an aura of light, making way for our future
By the force natures gods and grace, the time is right at last
