Rot and ruin and smog-smothered skies,
We whisper and watch as Magnagora slowly dies,
Never fast enough, but steady and sure,
Bleeding culture, becoming such a terrible bore,
Roads that crumble, a bell-tower never ringing,
The Voice of Jagrerox silenced, now unsinging,
The city turned to nothing but a dry husk,
Trapped, unchanging, stuck forever at dusk,
Where the wretched oil's stink,
Into hair, skin and nails sinks,
Skeletal remains, city and people both,
Bloated parasites, unwilling of growth,
A prison rotten down to its broken bones,
Where sloths rot on their golden thrones.