Tha Git Wha Came in Fourth

Twas a tourney, just a tourney, not a real tourney even
But a practice one for sharpenin' ya skills
Just a tourney, little tourney, only eight people all in it
So the MoLs could figger up their kills.

An tha tourney, that wee tourney, there was swingin' and was hackin'
just a tourney, not even really swingin' blows
But there's always one, ya know it, that has got to win at enna
that he puts his mind to, fer real or for shows.

An the tourney it progresses, as progressin' tourneys do
An it gets on down to quarters of the mob
An in ain corner 'tis a Ruslan, just a-mindin' his own bizzy
An' the aither corner, naw, we's got's a slob.

An I'm shure we'll nevair know for what was goin through his head
An the facts of all the fightin' ain't in doubt (no sir)
But the slob, he starts ta whine at whar he thinks nae one can hear him
how he didn't, really, truly, lose that bout.

"nae, 'twas me thumb that got the livin' smacked out of it
'an after that could hardly hold me sword
an' when i went me pub could barely pop the safety cap off
all the brews i used to drown me sorrows more

Ah, that Ruslan, he's a terror, an' he ain't got nae permission
for to hold that sword he smacked me with atall
'an if I had more chubbies I'd sure race me off ta marshall
an' tell 'im so, and stir up trouble withal.

Now, don't you worrie, dearie, here's yer prize, ya worthless snowflake
For finishin' the tournament, near mort
But just remember, dearie, if yer gonna pitch a whinin'
Might as well, at least, whine higher than finish fourth.