O Rifle of orange plume and black regale, When I cradle you in my Armada Type 3s You slumber sound amidst the boiling vale, The Shores of Time, your lullaby a sulfur breeze But I espy a Blade Dancer on the prowl His glossy cape aflutter in the wind He lets his knife from sheath with crackling howl And leaps to collect me for his pile of sins When I reach your trigger, thereupon you leap To lash this saucy scamp, and give a lesson sore. But ever up, and to the side, your reticle doth creep Til your effluence passes him feet seven-score. Alas, I am slain, like fifty times before, The Blade Dancer hopping round like some jester Mad. Hex Caster ARC, I found you in an Engram's store And you kind of suck, but I suppose you're also kind of rad. Recoil dampeners, please.