Stretching forth like the dark hand of death,

The plague sweeps o’er lands of lost breath.

The land is desolate and dark,

The homes are quiet and stark.

 Outside, none but the buriers move,

Rattling along their well-worn groove.

Calling out with much, much dread,

“Come; come, bring out your dead.”   

The future for the people is bleak,

The streets and town all wreak.

The burial trenches are being filled,

While the whole place has stilled.

People fleeing,

People seeing,

People crying,

People dying.

Then spreads the Fire,

“Run, run!” screams the crier.

All who are left must flee,

Flames are engulfing the city, they see.

When the smoke clears,

Their eyes fill with tears,

For their city is crumbling,

And their stomachs are rumbling.

Then comes Wren with tools in hand,

And begins rebuilding the barren land.

 Now the place is great once more,

Thanks to Wren’s great building lore.