EPTHello, menu, my old friend.
The vile Doom Virus spelled my end.
Although the Antidote I was researching,
My fellow Sakkra were in death-throes lurching.
And the genocide inflicted on my pop
Never stopped
Before the sound of Psilons.
I built my factories alone,
Terraformed my planets’ stone.
‘Neath the corona of a yellow star
I researched fuels that propel ships far,
When the screen turned teal with the greetings of a fellow race
From outer space
And so I knew the Psilons.
And in the galaxy I met
More other races, four at that:
Mrrshans starting wars without speaking,
Klackons clacking, and Darloks sneaking,
And Alkari popguns orbiting my lair
Would not dare
Speak out against the Psilons.
“Fools!” yelled I, “You do not know,
Psilons like a cancer grow
With their fifty-percent research bonus.
We must kill them, we must share that onus!”
But my words like nukes upon Class-Ten shields fell
(not so well)
And they ignored the Psilons.
Then the races bowed and prayed
To the Psilons’ vile charade,
And supported them in the election,
Leaving me with but one course of action
And they joined against me in the final war
Filthy whores.
Such is the sound of Psilons.
