Yo! I crack the whip, you play the game.
Every encounter that’s obstructionary comes in my name,
so that you came to become obsessed with my location.
Clues to my identity: denied to the impatient.
Step up! I sense you’re on the precipice of something.
Me, I’m on the brink of delivering your lumpings:
make you load your save up for the fifty fifth time,
make you scroll through unskippable dialog lines,
and you still ain’t any closer to discovering why.
Got technology for lackeys that can hover and fly.
Got them other two guys in their sights and apt to wreck them.
Give the beatdown to you quicker than your finger in Tekken.*
I crack the whip, you play the game...
you’re not going to get the final boss tamed.
Elevated? I don’t give a drip if you celebrate it.
Every time you level up it’s ‘cause I delegated
your demise to the wrong size of minions.
Got a bigger batch coming. Statisticians got a dim opinion
of your chance to survive. Make your time.
I got a hundred billion of them and they’re standing in line
to make you shine light out your special move hole
(cause you got hit so hard by the energy bolt).
And it’s a moat you can’t cross, a key you can’t get.
Ain’t done the right NPC’s subquest yet.
Got to collect bullshit that I done littered in the realm.
I aim the whole game at you to fatigue and overwhelm.
Final boss is the be-all end-all class of society:
very exclusive but not higher than me. All the sobriety
of the day and age might prove indecent,
cause me to find and strangle the baby of Jackie Gleason.**
But then I’m evil and puissant, unpleasant and bent on my ends.
At the final reckoning: too late to make amends.
It’s too late to make friends; I’m infuriated already.
Primest cut of minion, double-corrugated and steady,
stands between Fe and Fi, so go whistle.
Go huddle a hobo corpse. Nestle his bristle.
This towers as your obstacle: my will will never bend!
Doesn’t matter how you struggle, never gets you past the end.
I crack the whip, you play the game...
you’re not going to get the final boss tamed.
I crack the whip, you play the game...
How can you defeat me, you don’t even know my name?
“...aw, boot skidoot. You gotta get outta here.”
* We assume your finger moves rapidly when you play Tekken. But this beatdown is promised to be even more speedy.
** We use “the baby of Jackie Gleason” here to mean “Jackie Gleason in baby form,” as opposed to “a baby sired by Jackie Gleason.” It being 1922, Mr. Gleason is nearing or has recently enjoyed his sixth birthday, and while hardly an infant, he is not yet old enough to produce issue. It is only with the most evil and horrid prescience that the final boss would seek to rob the world of the young Mr. Gleason’s impending comic output. Perhaps the repeal of prohibition will dampen the final boss’s murderous zeal before it is too late.
