All hail Bob: father, son, and magnificent bastard of wormholes. Let us play in your garden so we can keep you entertained with our sacrifice. Then for you we slaughter our enemies as ourselves, because only you find joy in all the wrecks that shall be on your intergalactic D-scan. In your wisdom rests chaos, and in your heart rages war. And forgive us our cursing as we forgive you the upwards deviation. So lead us to glorious [?] so we don't fall for [?] In the end, we may call your garden our haven, our sanctuary, a place where the only logical answer even in the darkest of days was and always will be, 'this feature is working as intended'. As you will be our master and our destroyer for all [?]. Please bless our doctrines, and may you keep us away from the endless class 4 chains, so we can always find [?] targets. So when the weapons cool down and the wrecks've been salvaged, only one thought remains: praise be Bob.