by Nick Gisburne
The storms hurl tides of blood and seething tar
They drench the land in darkness and disease
A river, thick with plague, a poison scar
Delivers death to sterilise the seas
Colossal giants smash the city gates
The throbbing of their engines shakes the skies
Within, the doomed defenders face their fates
And yet, they see a silent spectre rise
The necromancer makes a final stand
Arcane, infernal magic fills his head
Apocalyptic angels sweep the land
The giants, screaming, shatter, broken, dead
Though little but a wasteland still remains
They need a plumber, soon, to fix the drains
