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报告翻译问题



the noobs crawl low, no balls, no pride.
They toss their grenades like priestly lies,
yet blow themselves, to my delight, and dies.
The sniper waits with trembling hand,
his scope more limp than prick unplanned;
I rush, I stab, his body’s still —
a poet’s joy, a savage kill.
O Metro, foul, yet sweet delight,
where ♥♥♥♥♥ respawn to lose the fight;
And I, with verse and bullets true,
♥♥♥♥ all the map, and ♥♥♥♥ them too.