To the False Lords of Iron Mountain

You sit upon your gilded throne,

Stroking upon your tiny bone.



Gossiping like a housebound bitch

Or more likely a ditchbound snitch.



The ones you betrayed know your true face

And would see it smashed with ironshod mace.



Soon a price be laid upon your head,

Likely as soon you'll wish you were dead.



With your reign ended, a city turned tragic

Can ag'in return to its previous magic.