Vader s Many Prosthetic Parts Eng

In the dockside bars they whisper once again:
“Under Vader’s mask there’s barely any man.”
Nobody knows what truth or lies,
But fear runs cold when heavy footsteps rise.

He breathes like some rusted iron gate,
Like broken lungs grinding inside that plated state.
And when the hallway turns pitch black —
You know the Dark Lord is stalking back.

Vader! Vader! Black commander king!
Sounds like a junkyard strapped to everything!
Helmet shining like the Emperor’s throne,
But damn, that walking suit won’t shut up alone.

Vader! Vader! Terror of the stars!
Still drunken rumors crawl through spaceport bars:
That instead of hands and instead of feet
It’s wires, scrap metal and overheating meat!

On Kessel some miner swore out loud:
“That bastard died — now armor walks the crowd.”
And if you strip that metal skin,
There’s enough loose screws to sink a ship within.

Another swore he saw one night
An Imperial tech with spare drives stacked up tight.
And through cigar smoke came the joke:
“They grease his joints with budget-issue army smoke.”

Vader! Vader! Black commander king!
Sounds like a junkyard strapped to everything!
Helmet shining like the Emperor’s throne,
But damn, that walking suit won’t shut up alone.

Vader! Vader! Terror of the stars!
Still drunken rumors crawl through spaceport bars:
That instead of hands and instead of feet
It’s wires, scrap metal and overheating meat!

Twi’lek girls are laughing in the dark:
“So what’s inside that armor — what’s his secret spark?”
One of them grins and throws a chip:
“Bet that thing is twitching, shifting, thick as shit.”

Another nearly spits her wine:
“There’s probably buttons marked ‘FUCKING OVERDRIVE’ inside.”
And when he drops that filthy cape —
It’s not a Sith Lord, it’s a goddamn sex-droid rape parade.

He walks like some broken fucking droid,
A walking nightmare, twisted humanoid.
Beneath the helmet, dim red light,
Spice and hookah smoke all through the night.

Behind the mask there’s haze and sin,
But the Empire calls it “perfect discipline.”
Nobody sees beneath black steel
How chilled-out the Dark Lord really feels.

Vader! Vader! Black commander king!
Sounds like a junkyard strapped to everything!
Helmet shining like the Emperor’s throne,
But damn, that walking suit won’t shut up alone.

Vader! Vader! Terror of the stars!
Still drunken rumors crawl through spaceport bars:
That instead of hands and instead of feet
It’s wires, scrap metal and overheating meat!

An Imperial officer once said:
“I saw him smash a blast door clean off its head.”
Someone laughed and shouted back:
“Try not exploding with a thousand servo packs.”

If half of him is bolts and scrap,
Then screw a blaster — just use a magnetic trap.
Neodymium magnet to his chest —
And even Vader takes a permanent rest.

And once again his cape’s in swampy grime,
He drags that filthy thing through planets every time.
And rumors spread from dock to dock:
That Vader washes that dirty cloak by hand at night.

Vader! Vader! Black commander king!
Sounds like a junkyard strapped to everything!
Helmet shining like the Emperor’s throne,
But damn, that walking suit won’t shut up alone.

Vader! Vader! Terror of the stars!
Still drunken rumors crawl through spaceport bars:
That instead of hands and instead of feet
It’s wires, scrap metal and overheating meat!