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O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee

Spiritual mathematics 
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis

Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?

O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps — 
Udders on an impudent heifer mother 
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction

Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?

O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s 
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?

Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces

As the integer worms of digital reproach 
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces

Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory

O Magog,
the war dogs of death 
howl oppressively for thee

Thy merchant ghost ships 
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage 
washes upon 
thy polluted Gog shores continually

O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?

Which of thy mariner children
shall read 
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?

Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed

O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog — 
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
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