There was a poor boy that nobody loved.
His name was Chris, a punk that never moved.
Until the day he became a man, a man!
Wrote his legacy in blood without being Canadian.
Like a hat worn with no head beneath; he is redundant,
He is crude, he is funny, he is a hero in every single rant!
Gave his wife love untold because I don’t know nor do I care.
In this life he gives gives and but doesn’t want to share.
Is that so? He trusts his friends with his pride and joy, a guild.
Why else? We fight and fight, growing together to build and build.
What about when the odds stack against him? He believes in us all.
Is he noble though? Hell no, he is monkey trained to resist a fall.
Even that isn’t so, as we run into battle for pride instead of logic.
What can pride for us to do? Well, haven’t you seen the sick?
As in Zaihtan, a great brood of the mortal heart – lost in vanity.
That is as I listen to my guild members, we have neither that or sanity.
One man has an obsession over dicks, another Canadians; fun for all.
That was when the greatest battle came, I was busy thinking during a maul.
Chris yelled and yelled, I didn’t know if they wiped or what.
Death was everywhere when I came by. . .for we all understand that,
Was he dead? Not at all, stood there pink and gleeful laughing to the sun.
Is this madness? Very near but that is why he is the best person for fun.
Would you believe me if I told you 1v10 is not an exaggeration?
I didn’t believe it at first either, but time proves this vitrification.
Now, not knowing the events, I will speak of the carnage.
It stretched for not a mile but a league of life’s sick age,
Mimicking the mortality of us all against the splendor of nature.
Who begets this? Gods or what? We know not but it is a feature.
Can I say adieu? For man’s only enemy is himself, a tragedy of eternity.
Fighting for what? Points and money, things that create mass pity.
Watch this come, a wave of deceit and sodomy – take it through the heart.
Like Cupid’s arrow, dipped in Psyche, between thought and love it will depart.
A great love, like a mosiac of time, it sets us apart from animals.
Let us march for time’s lapse, watch as cracks live in castles,
Because there is no escape from fate or death – it only comes.
Yet you cannot conceive, what do you do? A dead man mouth foams. . .
Why does it go on and on? For fun and debauchery – sickness of humanity.
Is that sickness or justification? Decide for yourself, all and all in entirety.
Now I must depart, my name is called onto the battle once more. . .
Take heed of my words, fellow men, prepare to die and count down from four.
