Mycenaeans

The means of our dominance washes about our feet
Our Bronze Age of progress splintered upon the reef

Five days or fifty years, we'll soon be fate's debris
Impatient nations north of here, hunger to make history

With no means of trade, crushed is our maritime might
Foreign sandals upon our sands, will we last the night?

Five days or fifty years, we'll soon feel fate's teeth
Impatient nations north of here, hunger to make history

What Gods do we turn to, which priestess do we believe?
The ones who clutch snakes, or those who point to the sea?

Every ship and sail swallowed by the generous one
A naval nation's stay of execution

What will the Greeks think when they see what we've become?
Delusion, chaos, and cannibalism