A poem by GiantSlayer. [i]In Spanish, it translates “Mount Carl”, But to me, it means instrument. An instrument, of course, of destruction, With it my time is well spent. They say t’was forged in Golden Age, But I say t’was forged in combat. For each round of high caliber that I fire, Means soon my melee’s back. And paired with Greaves of Peregrine Makes every foe to fall. When knee meets chitin, steel or bronze And they mean no more than thrall. I am not done yet, for I still need mention Their symbiotic relation. As the weapon gains strength from peregrine’s slaughter In righteous consummation. This poem’s done, and there it ends, My eulogy for the two. But before I go, there’s one more thing I must say before I’m through. Our knees were once the scourge of gods, Our enemies’ skulls did crunch. For we found that we could use the Greaves And shotgun of One-Two Punch. Alas, this change, intended not, Was speedily fixed, and now we mourn. The Arcstriders now, emboldened in mind, Punch better than us, almost to scorn. And so my request now goes thus, “In balance don’t treat us half-Blam!-ed. “The Honor should be reserved for us “As the ultimate punching class.”[/i]