Little mouse, your eyes are like melting sunbeams; distilled liquid gold.

Pure as glaciers; oblivious to nights without stars.

Little mouse stuck in your abode in the wall.

Counting minutes like daises, waiting to soar into the stars.

Towering giants have eyes like coal, crumbling to an ash.

Smoldering from the core; oblivious to nights with stars.

Towering giants, cold and chiseled out of stone.

Counting minutes like hammers, all to break down your walls.

Little mouse, towering giants wear a mask of Mummy, offering to lift you where you are weak.

But they trap you in your own corner, laying bombs on your own bridge.

At first, you’ll thank them for the cheddar, until you’re trembling in their hand.

Towering giants cannot feed you with their own starvation.

Now they’ve caught you by your whiskers, robbing you of the stars.

Little mouse, farewell to your abode in the wall.

Welcome, to a world without walls.

Now you’re shivering in the palm of a towering giant, chiseled out of stone.

Little mouse, to them you are hollow like them.

Just an experiment in barbaric anthem without rhyme.

Will you dance for zombies, or will you die?

Will you slave or will you starve?

Little mouse you are not vermin—you are just a child.

Little child, you were ambushed by vermin.

You deserve a million stars.

But instead, you’ve been buried in a black hole.

Instead, you’ve been broken at your hinges, the things that once held you together have torn you apart. 

Brilliant child, your soul has been seared by burning giants.

Your eyes have been turned to coal, now crumbling to an ash.

Little child, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT.