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Fungi of the mountain drops from the palm of the shaman

Bones beating drums, ancestral fire dance around us

Drawn to the eye, you’re blinded by the shine of sin

Pray shrills like Baykok, as we bask in oroborus revenge

There’s not much going on

from the wormhole out rolls the spawn

Chupacabra in the field of the shepard’s sheep

Bats stampede out Red Foot’s teeth

Cauldron brew with pulpy grinds of imps

Black wizard smoke will get you high as shit

Stone hand of doom fingers with zero love

Leda sprays all over Magwai cubs

My extinction will pass a curse

as the wind carries my final breath

like a pollen spore of pestilence.