What a vicious punk --
I'm pretty sure he lies about his age.
What's with the bow and ponytail?
Desert skin curtained by auburn,
socketed with emerald eyes.
Who does he think he's fooling?

What a deplorable. . .
I'm pretty sure his skill with a sword
is comparable to beginners.
Pillow lips protect a silver tongue.
While we work, he's in the taverns,
playing at conversation.

What a queer young man --
Even back on Jalima he ruffled
feathers on the goodly wings.
I wouldn't trust a man who would
speak, over choosing violence.
Who does he think he's fooling?

You once shall meet me,
In many forms come I.
A creeping knife, an ominous pall,
A particle in your dense sky.

I play music, you see.

But, this music isn't pleasant.
It combines every element of malice.
Chains and whips ravage your ****** drums,
And I take you in.

You fall to your knees, and your eyes burst from pressure.
I keep playing mine tune on mine horrid instrument.

The aria of the Antichrist is formed into a choir, of the demons and Malakai, Loki and Lucifer.
The screeching is played too fast for your eardrums. They rupture.
Suddenly, the crease of reality breaks.
You are ****** into a shale-colored vortex, never to be again; listening to the wretched howl of the demons below.

You once met me,
In many forms came I.
I felt pity for you, and played you a soft tune,
But you only heard screeching while you died.