Because I could not stop for Deathwing,
He kindly stopped for me;
The instance held but just ourselves
And server instability.
We slowly progressed, gear with no haste,
And I had put away
My t12, and my offhand too,
For his RNG.
We passed the loot, where raiders strove
At rolling high, for a ring;
We passed the fields of wiping noobs,
We passed the alt night run.
Or rather, he passed us;
The loots grew quivering and chill,
For spirit-less my cloth gown,
My trinkets only tulle.
We paused before a pug that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The achievements scarcely visible,
The gearscore but a mound.
Before the xpac 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the developers' heads
Were toward MoP