And the games still go on

With a warning to the bishop from the pawn

No one sees an angel till it smashes to the ground

And then you run somewhere

And leave it lying there



Then on we sail

Never thinking that the wind could ever fail

No one gets to heaven till they've lived awhile in hell

And even then it's rare

That you'll be going there



Now we understand. All traces of Magica must be eliminated. 

Infection. Infection. Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete,

Delete delete delete delete...