As the terror of night fall tolls,
Waiting with baited breath are the drones of something wicked.
We best lock the doors, cover the women and children.
The sun sets, and at last you flood in as the armies of pure horror.
Your weakness is the incessant beat of slick wings.
No single one of you bares mercy for the light,
It be the first thing slaughtered.
And through the night you find the cracks in houses your grotesquely large bodies can manage.
No head of hair is safe from the wrath.
Yet the worst part comes morning,
When your remains cover street corners and tables,
And we are left to mourne the dead for you.
Must you show no respect, no compassion for mankind?