My damage? Barely a dent. My skill? Looks like I was sent, To fail at every hunt I attempt. My shells? Just for show, they're spent. Tripping my teammates is an event, Nothing to boast about, it's lament. My sharpness? It's long since went, No hope for me to circumvent. My mobility? Like a big elephant, Slow and cumbersome, no ascent. My cart? For sure, it's eminent, On the ground, defeated and bent.