Pestilence Machine

The air is thick with the moans of death,

The land is withered with illness,

The sea is green with the stench of rot,

And they all feel it slipping, everything they've got.

My stenchcloud stalks the land,

Hungry for illness and thirsty for death

Free you from your mortal coil

From happiness and all I despoil

I'm the pestilence machine

Trying to take your life

My feverish motors

Make my plague rife

Through dirt and decay, I roam the world,

Targetting vigour and healthiness

Attracting the wolves and maggots alike

And waiting for nightfall before I strike

<p style="text-align:center">Tirade of Squallor, Catastrophe of disease.