Green currents, bubbling rot on the waves afloat...
An air, where each gust stinks and scorches the throat...
Smaller than a mustard grain,
Yet their power grows in batch,
They prove that sometimes green
Can be green a bit too much.
Clouding waters as a mournful, rotting hide flays,
Dying millions of times through the heating days.
Uncounted deaths from the seabed rebound,
Seeking clean places never to be found...
Green currents, bubbling rot on the waves afloat...
An air, where each gust stinks and scorches the throat...
Sulfur clouds still don't cover the sky,
But a handmade hell we set loose on the fly.
Deepest bunkers won't hide you enough,
When world systems break under this gulf...
Green currents, bubbling rot on the waves afloat...
An air, where each gust stinks and scorches the throat...
