The last thing your eyes will see is your children's blood,
their thighs trembling like a virgin's in the temple,
on the night when the generals conquer them for the first time -
we too, have conquered your country's thighs and sucked on her breasts:
they tasted of gold, and her nipples reeked of iron.
Where is your silver now, you pig? Stop grovelling.
At least let your sons see you brave, as they descend to an underworld you don't believe in
See what your God of thirteen measures has meted out - repent and weep.
Where is He who took you out of Egypt?
Ten plagues my ass!
After I kill your firstborn, maybe I will spread his blood on my doorpost - it would go nicely with the painting I have in my foyer. Then I will have my whore spread her legs - maybe I'll force her to lick the blood from my fingers. I wonder what it tastes like - sweeter than cum? No, it has too much iron. Like a sword.
Take out his eyes. Let the image of his children's blood fall on the empty sockets like rain. Now bring me some wine.
The curtain closes, and all is silent.
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