"Everything is Gone" is also pretty funny after being thrown in this generator.
Da Grangor playas stood peep on a high icy shelf ta peep tha flames swallow tha windin spirez of Trostan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Smoke glittered round they faces n' clogged they lungs as tha hood dat had been tha ass of tha Gythian crystal trade turned tha fuck into tha grill of hell. They threw Gythian gold down tha fuck into tha crevasse fo' safe passage fo' tha dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da coins had become, up in one day, useless anywhere within a hundred miles.
Da wise ones gathered up in a snow-dusted clusta n' thumped they staves on tha ground up in tha ancient rap rhythm. With a judgmenstrual lick of his one tusk, tha eldest fuckin started tha straight-up original gangsta Tellin of tha rap dat would be holla'd at n' retold fo' generations:
"Dat shiznit was Trostan once yo, but soon it is ghon be forgotten."
"Da wise ones knew," they busted up in chorus.
"Humans came ta tear holez up in tha glaciers. They came ta rip tha crystal from tha earth. They came ta drank of tha well," continued tha next-eldest up in her shrill tone.
"Da wise ones knew."
"Our trophy-huntas traded wit humans fo' steel," called tha next.
"Da wise ones knew."
"Da hood collapsed under its own greed," crooned another.
"Da wise ones knew."
"Their ancestors lie too far ta carry home they souls," wailed tha eldest.
"Da wise ones kn…"
An icy blast from tha peak above trembled tha ground n' broke they song. "Sisuuk!" screamed a Mother, gatherin her kits close fo' realz. All eyes turned away from tha flames ta look upward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Instead of a avalanche, though, what tha fuck came forth along wit tha freezin wind was a thugged-out dude, his spine bent wit age, spotted skin fragile as onion layers yo. His claw-like hand gripped a staff fo' realz. Around his shouldaz da thug wore tha pelt of a Grangor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Though none of tha Grangor had peeped his ass before, they all knew of tha elusive recluse. Reim, they called him, masta of ice, devourer of Grangor, terror of tha Kall Peaks. Though they outnumbered his ass by nuff dozens, tha Grangor backed away, weapons all up in tha ready, while tha ice mage exhaled enraged breaths dat crystallized tha fuck into frost.
"Where is tha boy?" he growled.
"His mutha knows," replied tha eldest yo, but dat shiznit was only a expression among tha Grangor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it meant dat a thang could not be known.
With a sneer, Reim turned away from tha Grangor n' strutted tha path down tha mountainside, grumblin ta his dirty ass all tha way. Da river dat bordered tha burnin hood flowed black wit ash. Reim struck his staff on tha ground n' tha flowin wata froze up in place yo. Dude shuffled over it, coughin n' hacking, tha fuck into tha hood, wavin his staff up in irritation all up in tha fires as he passed dem wild-ass muthafuckas. They sizzled n' hissed tha fuck into frozen, charred kindling.
"Kid!" his schmoooove ass called. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Yo kid!"
Da hood had bustled wit trade n' travelaz dat morning; now, only tha livestock raced away from they burned enclosures ta tha rivers at either side of tha basin.
Da mage choked tha fires under his conjured frost one by one, leavin fucked wit cribs n' bidnizzes under thick sheetz of ice, by turns callin up n' mumblin ta his dirty ass yo. Dude stopped ta roll his wild lil' fuckin eyes all up in tha mage tower, resplendent up in its ancient Gythian spires, tha centa of Trostan’s posse. Da top third had collapsed; tha rest was a scorched husk of its forma magnificence. This, too, he left frozen behind his muthafuckin ass. Round tha hood tha pimpin' muthafucka traveled, tension risin up in his voice. "Yo kid, you’re late biaaatch! Where’d you git off to?" his schmoooove ass continued until he reached tha halcyon well all up in tha center, tha only thang unaffected by tha flames. Noxious fumes rose from tha burnt detrituz of Trostan, drowned under ice. There, all up in tha well’s edge, was a lil' small-ass biatch wit her grill buried up in tha furry shoulder of a much larger Grangor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In one hand, dat freaky freaky biatch held a lantern dat cast eerie shadows up in tha swirlin ash.
"Ay!" shouted Reim wit a annoyed clearin of his cold-ass throat. "Who’s up in charge here!"
Da biatch turned her soot-stained face, mapped wit tears, toward tha stranger, revealin tha singed remainz of tha robez of a High Mage of Gythia yo. Her shouldaz rolled back, her chin tilted up, n' though dat biiiiatch was much smalla than tha other two, tha answer ta Reim’s question had been answered.
"Da boy," da ruffneck demanded.
Da biatch shook her head n' held tha Grangor’s forearm fo' support. "He’s gone," she answered, then looked up all up in tha Grangor’s chubby face. "Everythang is gone."