The Atoll

Plasma
My liege your magic powers are what I trust
Its not a bad life under your thumbs rule
I fear great tyranny if robbed of you
Their talk of kings and gods of realms and reichs
To whom else might I murmur my rare qualms?
Hector (chants)
If not concussed bemused then seeing dying stars
The clustering three dee giant avatars
And teleported hybrid mecha clones
Such humanoids work magic make no bones
Some we could wave pinch or cut our hands through
Most we could tickle tense straight out of blue
Earths hardened crust round molten mettle core
Conceals a solid acting liquid door
Alternate universe through there our fate
If we drip feed in selves alive in state