Looked down upon with scorn
We work the fields of the masters
Destitute servile cast out
Affording no tomb
We shall be buried
Unprepared in the sand
We shall never be the blessed dead
Scorned by Asar
Condemned at the weighing of the heart
We are exiled from the netherworld
Serpents fall upon us dragging us away
Ammitt who teareth the wicked to pieces
Pale shades of the unblessed dead
None shall enter without the knowledge
Of the magickal formulas
Which is given to few to possess
Not for us to Sekhet Aaru
Our souls will be cut to pieces with sharp knives
Tortured devoured
Consumed in everlasting flames
We shall never be the blessed dead