All my rivals will see what I have in store, my gun,
I've been harboring fleets in this reservoir, red sun,
And this nations' about to explode,
You're disciples are riddled with metaphors, well hung,
Better pony up and bring both your barrels full, not one,
As we release this unspeakable toll...
(?).
How's our mother to damn these contributors, with mud?
How will the man who made chemicals difficult, shed blood?
How's our father supposed to be told?