Here is a sonnet that my friend Niall wrote for me about my adventures in The Pitt. It is awesome. Please enjoy it.
In ragged garments, as a slave would dress,
I yielded all my weapons at the gate
“This better be one sweet-ass ammo press”
I vowed, “or else I’ll scourge The Pitt with hate.”
They handed me a worn out, rented gun
and made me play their stupid death-match sport
I blew each fighter’s brain out, one by one,
To make it clear I’m not the fuck-with sort.
And when I sought to cure the sickened slaves
The key component was a baby’s life!
I snatched the tot, dodged countless bullet waves
and closed the deal before I drew new strife
Homicide, in balance, is a trifle,
when it yields more ammo for your rifle.