Batton down the hatches, baby.
Their bringing in the heat.
Theres a man with a sign in his hands
That says  " The end is near". Take heed
They are coming in with a quickness
Can't you hear their thunderous roar.
Droning from the sickness equipped
with a dirt **** bed of sores.

Shutting up the shutters to keep
Out the trecherous storm.
Bumbling about conspiracy
I've Concocted from the cream of corn.
I know one thing for certain
We will together weather this storm.
No longer stand for the perpetual motion.
As we improvise explosives for the norm.