Like tigers in a field, Bombay cat eyes and I've conquered the upper plains, lower Arabia and will celebrate when the infernal Pope dies. His little reddened piglets will surely grunt and squeal when they learn of his perverse suffering, the astuteness of a traitor, the lust and abominations inside of his putrid fat and flabby naked flesh. Pious existence, all stray. Yelp like a mangy dog when your back is badly broken, speak your dead language, your failed rebellion against God. God said the air becomes wind when it's angry, we're an army that never sleeps, Pope. Cherish your monster of pride, your crimson birds and things you cannot hide, you write stench, the stench of atheism and hypocrisy whereas we crush the hellish heads of demons, war comes from me.