They creep through the swamp where the poison runs deep,While the Maneater Mildred is fast in her sleep."Shh! Don't make a sound! Don't trigger the trap!" Step. The sound of a parry echoes like a thunderous clap.
With a "Hey!" and a "Ho!" and a backstab or two,They’ve painted the Undead Burg a deep shade of blue.The fire is gone, and the dark has begun,Because Robbie of Astora is Number One. dark souls - we are number one
The music swells—a choir of brass and of bone,As the Rotten Greatwood dances alone.They’re "Number One" now, in this kingdom of rot,The masters of salt, whether wanted or not. They creep through the swamp where the poison
"Listen close!" cries the Villain, with a grin wide and bright,As he teaches the Chosen how to douse out the light."If you want to be a Dark Lord, the number one soul,You’ve got to catch a Sunbro and take back control!" The sound of a parry echoes like a thunderous clap
In the land of Lordran, where the hollows weep,A legend awakens from centuries of sleep.Not Gwyn with his lightning, nor Artorias the Brave,But a man with a plan, rising straight from the grave.
"Now look at this ring, that I just found,When I say 'go,' drop the host on the ground!GO!" He tumbles off a ledge into the New Londo ruins. "Ugh, let's try something else."
The fading fire crackles one last time. From the shadows of the Kiln, a familiar figure emerges—not a Lord of Cinder, but a trickster in stripes. He holds a chin of pure determination and a saxophone forged in the Abyss.