Sing a song of death, to those who do not believe. Show them the pain. Show them the teeth of that sabre-tooth dream (I'll be clean, you know, pollution machine, oh yeah) that will not hurt us, but will hurt them.
O Master, we are right behind you!
Thank you, my children. O my beautiful ones, the time is nearly upon us. Soon I will call you. You will do your duty.
O Master, command us!
Not yet! Be patient.
