All your forts are like peach trees, the lush peaches ripe, ready for the picking. One shake of the tree and they fall straight into hungry mouths.
Face it: Your warriors are wimps. You're sitting ducks. Your borders are gaping doors, inviting your enemies in. And who's to stop them?
Store up water for the siege. Shore up your defenses. Get down to basics: Work the clay and make bricks.
Sorry. Too late. Enemy fire will burn you up. Swords will cut you to pieces. You'll be chewed up as if by locusts. Yes, as if by locusts - a fitting fate, for you yourselves are a locust plague.
You've multiplied shops and shopkeepers - more buyers and sellers than stars in the sky! A plague of locusts, cleaning out the neighborhood and then flying off.
Your bureaucrats are locusts, your brokers and bankers are locusts. Early on, they're all at your service, full of smiles and promises, But later when you return with questions or complaints, you'll find they've flown off and are nowhere to be found.
King of Assyria! Your shepherd-leaders, in charge of caring for your people, Are busy doing everything else but. They're not doing their job, And your people are scattered and lost. There's no one to look after them.
You're past the point of no return. Your wound is fatal. When the story of your fate gets out, the whole world will applaud and cry "Encore!" Your cruel evil has seeped into every nook and cranny of the world. Everyone has felt it and suffered.