Upon the masses there was unleashed,
A wretched, twisted man.
The soul inside contorted, corrupted,
Consumed by Abaddon’s hand
Rivers will run
And flesh will peel.
Obliteration follows in his wake.
And the little hands
Of those little children
Lovingly he’ll take.
Seducing sweetly like Amdusias’ horn,
Until limb from limb
He has them torn.
Raining from his hands:
A cascade of gore.
Drip-drop, drip-drop.
Landing on the floor.
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