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Your brain short-circuited, had a little fit.
No gens, no map, no game IQ,
Just tunnel vision and a dream come true.
Three chases later, and you still swing wide,
You camped my hook with zero pride.
Calling it “pressure”? Bro, don’t pretend—
You face-camped me and still got 3-gen’d.
You ain’t a killer, you're just a crutch,
A walking L with a sweaty hunch.
No reads, no fakes, just pure despair,
Like a toddler mashing buttons mid-air.
Ever heard of pathing? Of zoning a vault?
Guess not—your plays are an insult.
My grandma loops better, and she’s been dead,
But at least she wouldn’t tunnel me instead.
You're not scary, you're just sad,
Hooking one and thinking you're bad.
Meanwhile my squad is farming blood,
While you're sniffing scratch marks in the mud.
So thanks for the camp, and thanks for the show,
Now go queue again and learn to let go.
Cause tunneling’s cute when you get a 4K...
But you didn’t.