The God of my ancestors rain curses on your names,
the heavens will see your headquarters consumed by fire and flame
The ashes of your idols; forgotten in the past
The time is nigh for judgment to turn your bases into glass
Riding the sky, the missiles and waves of divine drones
will burn the flesh from Pat Ryder's face and incinerate his bones
The streets will light with cocktail lights,
your tanks will all explode,
and there will be nowhere to hide when justice freely roams
We will take the weapons that were forged upon our backs,
we will take your bodies and pile them in stacks
the victory wind will scatter you when you have turned to dust,
and father time will smile down upon a job well done.
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