My father was a drunken fool.
He would not move an inch to feed
And could not get himself to stand
Or move away from the serpent’s touch.

My father was a drunken fool.
He would not move an inch for me.
And so, I moved the mountains in disdain.

I then became a firestorm.
I then became the slithering voice.
I then became a burden for this world to bare.

But then it had occurred to me,
I am the one who chose this life.
I bore this world for me to bare,
And fathered the glory mountain high,
A few serpents for me to slay,
A hellfire from which to rise,
A roaring from which to be
The lion’s mane I have become.

And so, when you’re at the valley’s sun,
And find yourself at the mountain’s feet,
Out from the yearning depths of hell,
You'll hear me roar for you, my rising son.