In the corners of her eyes, it begins to water,

The people and town she continues to slaughter

The day of reckoning is far from near,

Because of Mother it’s always here

She smells, looks, and eats about,

Down every little driveway and every little route

No resistance is ever offered to her,

But even if it was it wouldn’t cause a stir

Beneath her nails lies remanence of flesh,

From all the little mortals she netted to mesh

Mother loves to paint, she knows it quite well,

Too bad her canvas is a ravishing, burning hell

Eyes of flames and lips of dread,

What isn’t yet gone will never be fed

Nails of anguish and a heart of distress,

One step forward equals one bloody mess

“She’ll never stop her rampage,” a survivor once said,

Mother only listens to the calls, so she only looks ahead

In the essence of her existence lies a spirit so fair,

But is masked by eternal torment to rip and tear

All the puny ants flee from this relentless creature,

But the total width span of her fire she will soon feature

The anchor of malfeasance crashes her legs to a crawl,

For the apparatus stands idle, a pause, then a fall

An aria of sorrow cries in tandem with her soul,

A heart like a kiln, one that longs for coal