This is the last LFR, this is the last!
I must hold my hands to the keyboard and move out of the fire,
I must watch my dead raid fusing together into fail,
Shape after shape, and scene after scene from LFR
Fusing to one dead pile in the sinking fire
Where the ash of the dead, dying hunters grows swiftly, like a hungry snail.
Strange they are, my raid, whom I have awaited like a pig to slaughter,
Strange to me like a captive on an oceanic realm, haunting
The confines and gazing out on the realm of the lonely;
Tiny and gaunt, with wistful hair like rose water
Always raging in instance chat, as if his soul were chaunting
The monotonous weird of failure and of success, if only.
Like a strange proto drake blown out of the frozen seas,
Like a plainstrider from Barrens walking with no feet
Into our snooty LFR group, he drags and beats
From raid to raid perpetually, seeking release
From gear, from the grind, mandatory, which creeps up, needing
His happiness, whilst he in escapist displeasure retreats.