To croak, or not to croak? That is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the Giant's minds to suffer
The stuns and emblems of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of Rooks and, by opposing, end them.
To croak, to squish, no more, and by that squish to say we make
The grape juice and the thousandth trip through Hell
That Glitch is heir to; 'tis a long migration devoutly to be walked.
To croak, to squish. To squish, perchance to wake?
Ah, there's the rub, for in that squish of Hell where grapes are come
We may yet shuffle back to mortal coils, so gives us pause.
There's the respect that makes calamity of so much death
For who would bear the pigs and chickens flock, the mining throng,
The proud bandit's cotumaly, the pangs of depressed moods, the limit day,
The insolence of trollers and the scorn that patient merit of the players take?
Who would these badges bear to grunt and sweat through a weary mine
But that the dread of something worse than croaked
The unconnected gamer from whose hands
No Glitchiness ensues, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those quests we have
Than seek out others less well-defined?
Thus imagination doth make Glitches of us all.