it’s your little fella,
straight out of Bandle City,
right into action witty.
Swift scout on the move,
following the rhythm groove,
yordle and malicious dancer,
giving you the gift of cancer.
When the dark in me is triggered,
then the truth is being figured,
hellish force in me awakes,
mind and soul it overtakes.
Size doesn’t mean everything,
except for the mayhem that I bring,
spitting those toxic shots like a Kog’Maw,
sitting on a throne like where is your god now?
Hut, two, three, four,
dead bodies on the floor,
five, six, seven, eight,
The power of the scout’s code undisputed,
the crowned king of hell is saluted,
marching forward with a risen trident,
the world shivers, poisoned and frightened.
Take one last look at you shining Rift, Summoner,
for soon, nothing of it shall remain,
but my laughter.