Scourged At The Foot Of The Imperial Gates Of Satan

No! Please, please let me go
Oh red-horned-devils
I am the wrong person
No ie!
Chain me elsewhere. To the Rock of Quarthra
But no, not at the gates so very Imperial
My body is stained from the blood of
The Victims
The blackest urge of certain death
Oozes within me
The holy priests smile and nod in
Approval
Gloating at me, waving at me
With googly-eyed eyes

All goes quiet
But the low hum of the Bastard
Louder and louder it pumps up speed
The blades slice heads, fitch, fitch, fitch
The lake of organs a sight to be aware of
My back is sliced open
I die