The 20th installment: Pollock Manson
Alien invasions doesn't bother me when I'm armed fatherly,
barred hard with visciousness and guns that keeps our issues less.
Mission success' done quarterly, orderly put we're top secret assassins
picked from soldiers missing in action caught in passin' that fought their ass in
willing to do the drilling of killing top villains or millions of civilians if the big mans askin'.
Back then I said to my officials friend:
'Sounds thrilling, send the task in.'
Six years later and it seem like ages since insanity hit,
I'm proficient in readjusting my aim for gravity shifts on three planets n shit.
On the badassery bit I'm cold and callous for this. The
''masked bandits'' won't miss.
Oh, you thought humanity's it?
That we're angels on sight blessed with greek warriors might?
That our galaxy won't be contested to fight when in their mind we're honored with spite?
False, and it sucks to be right...
Living on a space station severed from life to the point it feels like playstation,
the beckoning echoing of tiptoe conversations mentoring loneliness and frustration.
Basically living the vivid image inside of a game and our planet's to blame,
but who cares when our talents are paid so they can control the source of savage & pain.
The forced damage of vain intellect is righteous if it ain't reaching the net,
we're unknown to why they'd fight us, but it's enough of them being a threat.
As time went on it became evident that we're ignored by the president,
we need reinforcements sent but the secrecy made it irrelevant,
so to Hell it went...
Along with other machines that excel in violence and known to stay silent,
honed to defeat masses of bastards as hired tyrants we attack the rebel alliance.
Our force called The Black Lions are ready for the course of bathing in alien gore,
watch em fade to the core as scotch blessed the taste of my friend Damien's sword.
Limbs caught in the wind don't drop to the martian atmosphere that we're in,
bottled with sin the battles stop and begins, too bad Martin wasn't destined to win.
Off to my left Harlots neck are met with razor sharp claws making a mess,
I state my regret as I realize my friends are dead and my head's aching with stress.
The corpse of a spider works as a grinder as foes come close and enforce exposure to fire,
I'm the lone wolf; a survivor, versus opposers composed with a deadly desire.
Guns go click and my knees fall like bricks to the dirt, screaming: 'shit, what was it worth?'
I witness my intestines devoured as they're leaving in ships
aimed for the earth...