The winds of death have blown the ashes from my urn
Nary a glance cast back, my rotted tomb of flesh was burned
Unfolding corridors towards twisting fractal zones
Emerging from their depths, Insectoid Masters chant their eerie tones
Looking back into your world Through ectoplasmic gaze
I see naught but a masquerade In which you're pawns & cogs & slaves
We hate the living, You disgust us with your fears
Deny & lie, oh, how you try,
Come time to die you'll find me waiting here...
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