Woe to the great city built upon the wetland, for you will be ducks shot in your own city grand.
Woe to the great city born upon a wet land, for your death will be brimstone asphalt upon a fiery land.
There were the twin pyres for funeral bred; panic, corruption, they had be pulled before the fires went out.
Betrayed not from without, but from within tannic, the betrayal comes again in what this is all about.
There in the mouth is your tongue like a maul, beating the masses from skyscrapers tall.
In your walled streets you think money is king, but your Hamite slave is your trojan horse they will bring.
Fifteen thousand billion is the price which was stole, the coffers lay bare with the crimes laid whole.
Cover with shroud the price of the thief, this is the crime to cover crime covered in grief.
Woe to the great city, the son of Dan, son of York; the Jew roasted there for the mound of Aviv pork.
No voice to contend, no money to lend, no opposition for brimstone crucifixion.
Season does come, season does set, when comes the great fall before summer is set.
agtG 258
