Hordes of mangled marionettes hoard so many histories of mystery,
That I beg in blank brandishing tongues, hounding the hordes most swiftly.
Because I am a puppet master pioneering such a broad pallet of poetic pleasure,
That surely the most silent shamans will sound their poignant sighs in solitude.

And we've accosted such armies--allied only to destruction,
Only to be found in fruitless dust.
Demons will someday antagonize them in blissful anarchy,
But for now we’ll pass an ancient altruistic remedy
And leisurely lull the pull of destruction.