Yo! I crack the whip, you play the game. 
Every encounter that's obstructionary comes in my name, 
so that you came to become obsessed with my location. 
Clues to my identity: denied to the impatient. 
Step up! I sense you're on the precipice of something. 
Me, I'm on the brink of delivering your lumpings: 
make you load your save up for the fifty-fifth time, 
make you scroll through unskippable dialog lines, 
and you still ain't any closer to discovering why. 
Got technology for lackeys that can hover and fly. 
Got them other two guys in their sights and apt to 
wreck ‘em.
Give the beatdown to you quicker than your finger in 
Tekken. 

I crack the whip, you play the game... 
you're not going to get the final boss tamed. 

Elevated? I don't give a drip if you celebrate it. 
Every time you level up it's ‘cause I delegated 
your demise to the wrong size of minions. 
Got a bigger batch coming. Statisticians got a dim 
opinion 
of your chance to survive. Make your time. 
I got a hundred billion of them and they're standing in 
line 
to make you shine light out your special move hole 
(cause you got hit so hard by the energy bolt). 
And it's a moat you can't cross, a key you can't get. 
Ain't done the right NPC's subquest yet. 
Got to collect bullshit that I done littered in the 
realm. 
I aim the whole game at you to fatigue and overwhelm. 

Final boss is the be-all end-all class of society: 
very exclusive but not higher than me. All the sobriety 
of the day and age might prove indecent, 
cause me to find and strangle the baby of Jackie 
Gleason. 
But then, I'm evil and puissant, unpleasant and bent on 
my ends. 
At the final reckoning: too late to make amends. 
It's too late to make friends; I'm infuriated already. 
Primest cut of minion, double-corrugated and steady, 
stands between Fe and Fi, so go whistle. 
Go huddle a hobo corpse. Nestle his bristle. 
This towers as your obstacle: my will will never bend! 
Doesn't matter how you struggle, never gets you past 
the end.