While hovering on feathered wings, a better sting operation
His battered visage and sadder wishes like divine instrumentation
Dedicated to the goal, eddies of smoke vaporized and diffused
He medicated his soul with red pills when it was time to choose
If you walked in his shoes, you'd out-dance the Blues Brothers with the funk
He bruises and bleeds like a typical human hiding evidence in the trunk
His attitude stunk but his countenance shone, glowing in a cloudless sky
To get a flatter view of a mountain, he hones his skill and is proud to fly
Above the trees and in the jet stream, he’s in a wet dream that stays dry
He bends at the knees on a set piece, launching himself without wondering why
Blundering among thunder and lightning, disarming or at least sundering armor
Determined to rescue his archetype princess before the villain harms her

Farming for loot and the spoils of war, he toils evermore on an epic journey
He enjoys it more when the peasants are screaming "please don't burn me"
"It doesn't concern me" he says, providing he pauses to speak
He determines his path of attack like a dragon with claws and teeth
Off the wagon this week, he's dragging his feet while stabbing methodically
With a flagon of mead, he batters repeatedly, staggers hypnotically
Stopping only to breathe, not sure what he believes but sure it's blasphemy
Popping valium or adderall so he can increase his mastery
No dastardly villain's willing or able enough to spill his blood
Disaster is imminent while the killing simmers and fizzles out like duds
Missing strikes and easy hits, legitimacy can't be bought for cash
He likes the bloodlust, a beserker rage within which he can flail and thrash
He's failing fast but turns tail to recover and stash some loot
Debating equipment from his inventory but soon the point is moot
He just points and shoots, soon the bodies are piling up into twitching mounds
He destroys the truth, hearing it scream and he finds he loves the way it sounds

Deployed like a nuke, he soars inexorably to his target's destination
Knowing that in the case of a water landing, no device can provide flotation
He chose a vocation of slaughter, he lost his pride and laudability
Traded it in for a sword and the drive to demolish his eternal enemies
… By his own accord he can slay the demonic assembly
And he's chronically tending to his wounds and the rust and the blood on his helmet
If he's strong enough, he might end his story and live long enough to tell it
But for now, he relishes it, developing skill that needs no embellishment