Fat and proud, he sits upon his throne,
A level 200 Mordhau warrior, in his room all alone.
His days are spent in darkness from morning to night,
As the sun rises high he is killing default knights.

Through the night till the dawn was crowned,
He fought on till the 5 AM hour was found.
The stink of sweat and grease filled the air,
As he scream against the feints with no care.

He's slaughter naked dwarves and mauling bards,
With a sloppy swing, of his greasy arms.
His sweat dripped down like rivers might,
Wessex drags and swings he does all night.

As morning sun rises high, he logs off with a sigh,
After he loses himself in Mordhau's fights.
He'll sleep all day again, dreaming of duels and gold,
But in real life, he's just a nobody, growing old.