All legions behold the parasitic twin! She leeches off of our palace, our creation. The meat machine proprietor in glitter, vomiting propaganda, snorting powdered pride.
Everyone fall victim on the count of three. Hand in your badges and drown with me. The siren’s song is a sick whisper drenched in breaths of sour greed. Sister Symptom sings lullabies of cyanide.
Who will save our surface features from the terrible tendrils the creature extends? Display no cowardice, no helplessness; we’ll mark our territory like the dogs that we are, stirring up the sick odor of possession.
Lets:
We’re:
