Three horns, Triskelion!

Welcome moving mass of seasoned men
That face rain and the wildest storms
Stoically with the same commotion of
squashing a pile of worms
We travel for miles. Miles, yards

Not a difference to us
Upon our shoulders we carry this heavy fur
Some may call us savages
But wilder shall be their dread if we clash in battle

Set on a cloud of dust
A line of warriors
Cover the horizon

They march scattered
No order is required
To wreak havoc upon the puny
Tentative threats

Combined with the dimness of the pale sun
Reddened hair and beard
Undulates to the omnipresent seashore winds
Serpenting like the bowels of their victims

No one can tell
Which will be their destination
No living being can tell
The destruction they're able to unleash

A rude strategy they apply to the battlefield
The fundaments are basic
To tame the flesh, rendering it apart

Three horns!

With pride they bear ornate shields
Painted with an icon

Three horns, a Triskelion!