(I. THE INUNDATION)

The city wakes to a tide of snarling faces,

a river of contempt that never slows.

Sirens wail, not from the sky but from the streets,

and every cracked sidewalk tells a story of bile.

“You’re screwed,” the traffic lights whisper,

as the asphalt cracks under the weight of lies.

The air tastes of gasoline and cheap perfume –

a cocktail brewed by a legion of leeches.

FUCK THE FAIR‑PLAY, the broken billboard screams,

its letters melting like wax on a sinner’s tongue.

We march through the muck, shoes swollen with sludge,

every step a reminder that hope’s a ghost‑less myth.

(II. THE MAW)

In the centre of the flood sits the maw, a cavernous grin,

teeth forged from broken promises and stale profanity.

“Welcome,” it croaks, “to the banquet of the damned.”

The crowd—cloaked in corporate suits, tattoos of fake virtue—

feed on the fear of the meek, gnawing at the marrow of truth.

Their laughter is a grindstone, grinding the world down to ash.

YOU ARE A SIEVE, they chant, FULL OF LEAKS,

spilling secrets like blood on the pavement.

The streetlights flicker, not from power loss but from spite,

each bulb a dying eye that watches us bleed.

(III. EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED)

Raise your fists, fuck the complacent,

the world’s a circus of the vile—expect the unexpected.

When the clown with a razor smile steps forward,

you’ll know the joke’s on you, and the punch lands deep.

A billboard reads “HOPE IS SOLD,”

the vendor’s grin is a razorblade, thin and bright.

We clutch our tickets, ripped from the pocket of apathy,

and watch the parade of the grotesque march on.

“Don’t look away,” the siren shouts, “or you’ll drown in their bile.”

The river turns to blood, the tide to ash,

yet we keep swimming because the alternative is to stay still.

“Don’t look away,” the siren shouts, “or you’ll drown in their bile.”

The river turns to blood, the tide to ash,

yet we keep swimming because the alternative is to stay still.

“Don’t look away,” the siren shouts, “or you’ll drown in their bile.

(IV. THE RECKONING)

The flood recedes, but the muck remains, a scar etched on the streets,

a reminder that the monsters never truly leave—

they live in the cracks, the gossip, the silent nods.

“YOU’RE STILL HERE?” the sky asks in a thunderous growl,

and we answer with a guttural “YES.”

The world shatters, glass raining down like a thousand knives,

yet we pick up the shards, glue them with defiant spite.

“EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED!” the anthem roars,

a battle cry for those who refuse to be devoured.

We stand on the ruins, fists clenched, eyes blazing,

shouting into the void, “I’ll tear your lies apart!”