Knock. Knock. Knock.
The last gate has finally broke.
Frenzy. Frenzy. Frenzy.
Your bonewalls crumble like a joke.

Ambush. Ambush. Ambush.
The spells of your mages has been choked.
Taunt. Taunt. Taunt.
We laugh while your ego has been stroked.

Eruption. Eruption. Eruption.
Your army has been reduced to smoke.
Rally. Rally Rally.
The second act of our army has been woke.

March. March. March.
Closer now - we'll hear you croak.
Despair. Despair. Despair.
There will be nothing left of you or your folk.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 22nd of Chakros, in the year 16 AC.