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