In a currently ongoing game of Diplomacy, myself (as Pope) and my short-lived Russian ally, having exhausted our political and tactical options, set about a campaign of intimidation in the public press wires, designed to terrify our Austrian neighbour into folding before our combined military and ghetto credentials. And what better way than to rap our oppenent into submission?
On a rest in Trieste where the beaches are fine
Rehearsin' ma sermons, revisin' my lines
Don?t go messin' wit' me while I'm watching the surf
Cause the papa is here, and I'm claimin' ma turf
When the hood's in the woods, well you better watch out
When my homies are homin' ain't no room for doubt
Ain't slackin': we packin', and we got a bad rep
Watch out for the men from the thirty-nine steppes.
Thomassino's the name and Popin's the game
And mountain assaultin' is my claim to fame
Silver-tongued asp in a slick armoured car
That's it from me -hit 'em, D-Tzar.
Yo, the popey-posse say that Europe's at war
Austria's nervous, an' Turkey is more
Rolling with my armour down Ukrainian hills
Sayin' 'Sultan/Duke, get out of my (Bear) Grillz!'
Pretty silly and not well executed, I know, but you get the point. As a diplomatic technique, as evidenced by his elimination and my continuing half-existence as a Turkish puppet-state, it leaves a little to be desired, but it set off a yearning to say "Yo" at inappropriate moments and spawned a monster called "Raptember", whose delectable fruit I will share with you in the coming days. It's not exactly high art, but please promise not to laugh at me.