Spyro the Imagined
I don’t really like it Gnasty,
but I do love them jewels. I love the way they are left to me
to collect. Like nobody else notices them.
I have so many questions, but then
you project that it isn’t really the place of a Purple Dragon
to be asking them.
So okay, no worries.
I’ll play the game,
and I’ll watch you be certain
that I don’t know anything;
all I know is how to headbutt,
and accelerate, and disappear, and fade away.
Now entering…
Ripto’s Rage, upgraded off the page
into a poem that stands the test of all your dishonesty. Laid
bare are my purple, racing haunches. My beautiful,
radiantly golden shock of scale-hair.
My dragonfly flitting around my psyche;
my ready, unquenchable, beaming glare
to kick some things to the curb.
To talk like I do in the first game, where I am basically seen,
and not heard, unless it’s to say
“Um…okay,”
and then you keep having the last word,
and, uh,
again I’m really okay.
I came here to collect gems,
to finish levels. Not to bury my head in the sand
or necessarily to do a speed-run, but just to defend my land
and have some fun.
If you don’t like it, quit the game.
Lovers, poets, madmen, video game players—
babe, they really are all just the same.