Upon his throne of snack bags and despair,
Sir Frapastico reigns, with crumbs in his hair.
A melee lord, supreme,
His kingdom? A basement lit by a screen's gleam.

By day, he slumbers, by night, he fights,
Slaying noobs under neon lights.
His weapon of choice? A zweihander so wide,
It deflects all feints and his mom's nagging sighs.

As dawn breaks, he logs off, his glory untold,
A warrior of the internet, but in real life? Just getting old.
He’ll sleep through the day, dreaming of loot and renown,
But in real life? He’s just a guy who never leaves his town.