I thought about Fallout 2, a game from which I learned most of my English.
If I was a wasteland warrior of will,
I’d wander and wait and wander until,
The wasteland night came with its cold chill,
Enveloped the vastness, whipped it still.
I’d construct my camp, cook up a chalet
To keep the creeping cold at bay.
Make a campfire, take my pot of clay.
Cook some grub at the end of the day.
Some rats and radscorpions, that’s my meal.
Some deathclaw meat, it’s the real deal.
A swig of rotgut for the burning feel.
And a cat’s paw, the pages now peel.
Some rad-x to keep the rads at bay.
Radaway evicts the ones who stay.
A super stimpack for the death delay.
A whiff of jet so the shakes go away.
One Nuka-Cola to take away the rasp.
It’s so cold it makes me gasp.
I fumble at my leather jacket’s coppery clasp.
It as a pillow and my gun in my grasp.
I go to sleep and dream of home:
Up in the north where the geckos roam.
It’s called Arroyo, that’s my home.
They need my help, I’m Cincinnatus, They’re Rome.
The village is dying, they need the G.E.C.K.
It’ll bring paradise with lost, forgotten tech.
I’m in a hurry, can’t waste one sec.
Hakunin’s in my dreams to keep me in check.
I wake up to the sound of a growl.
Grab my rifle and start to prowl.
I see a floater, looking quite foul.
Like a spore plant with a red, guts towel.
I take aim and fire my gun.
The laser lights the desert like the sun.
The floater burns and soon it’s gone.
I stay still but can’t see none.
My wounds are healed by my peaceful sleep.
I start to break camp when I hear a soft weep.
A Wanamingo is there, a brown little creep.
With ten friends, that’s just cheap.
I laser two down and try to run away
Trip on a log on this beautiful day.
They rush me, their tentacles flay
Eat me alive on the ground of clay.
I’m not the hero, my village is dead.
Their sole hope just lost its head.
Arroyo dried out, the drought just spread.
They should’ve chosen someone else instead.