In the land of Lordran, where the hollows weep,A legend awakens from centuries of sleep.Not Gwyn with his lightning, nor Artorias the Brave,But a man with a plan, rising straight from the grave.

He hands out the Cracked Red Eye Orbs with a flair,"Now sneak through the Parish, give the clerics a scare!Don't touch the bonfire! Don't look at the flame!We’re playing a different, more mischievous game."

The music swells—a choir of brass and of bone,As the Rotten Greatwood dances alone.They’re "Number One" now, in this kingdom of rot,The masters of salt, whether wanted or not.

"Listen close!" cries the Villain, with a grin wide and bright,As he teaches the Chosen how to douse out the light."If you want to be a Dark Lord, the number one soul,You’ve got to catch a Sunbro and take back control!"

"Now look at this ring, that I just found,When I say 'go,' drop the host on the ground!GO!" He tumbles off a ledge into the New Londo ruins. "Ugh, let's try something else."

They creep through the swamp where the poison runs deep,While the Maneater Mildred is fast in her sleep."Shh! Don't make a sound! Don't trigger the trap!" Step. The sound of a parry echoes like a thunderous clap.

With a "Hey!" and a "Ho!" and a backstab or two,They’ve painted the Undead Burg a deep shade of blue.The fire is gone, and the dark has begun,Because Robbie of Astora is Number One.