Fighting soldiers from the earth,
Fearless Orcs, who fill their girth.
Orcs who mean just what they do,
The ruthless Orcs, who will kill you.

Mithril mail upon their chest;
These are Orcs, Mordor’s best.
One hundred men will fall today, 
By only three of the Orcs, Hooray!

Trained to live on Death’ s own land;
Trained in combat, hand to hand.
Orcs who fight, whether rain or sun, 
’Cause we are having too much fun

Back at home, a Dark Lord waits;
A soldier Orc has met his fate.
He has died for those who oppress,
Leaving him this last request:

Put mithril mail on my son’s chest.
Make him one of Mordor’s best.
One hundred men may die that day,
By my own son, an orc that stayed.

Written by Kurkulk