Bastards queue for their terminal fate,
Machete machine primed for slicing.
Crimson blood flows under their feet.
Bastards, peasants, the scum will die.
Cutting, slicing, splattered heads.
Hunchbacks, Dogs, Priests and Whores.
No one who enters the cutting machine,
Will die with love for the Robot dream.
Why O why was the Machine created?
Serving no purpose other than carnage.
Utter confusion as the blades rotate,
Beautiful screams and bones shattered in pain.
Dicing, hacking, arms and legs,
Bloodied stumps drop to the floor.
Lower blades take care of the rest,
Bloody bodies, bloody mess.

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