Five more rounds, then I’ll log off,
That’s the lie I always cough.
I launch up CS2 once more,
To get one-tapped through a door.

I buy an AWP with shaky pride,
Miss the shot and quickly hide.
My teammate yells, “Bro what was THAT?”
While I inspect my stupid stat.

Flashbang flying — pure white screen,
I shoot my teammate by routine.
“Nice one, genius,” someone cries,
As smoke grenades consume my eyes.

We rush B with noble dreams,
Then instantly die to deagles’ beams.
“Go A instead!” the bottom fragger
Says while walking with full swagger.

The enemy’s cracked, they never miss,
Each headshot feels like legal bliss.
Meanwhile I spray a perfect arc
Completely around the target mark.

Knife skins shining bright and clean,
Worth more cash than my cuisine.
I own a sticker worth a dime,
Yet check the market every time.

The clutch begins — a one versus four,
My heartbeat shakes the bedroom floor.
I whiff the final easy kill…
Then queue another match still.

For though this game destroys my peace,
My rage will never truly cease.
The yelling, sweat, and salty view —
I sadly love me some CS2.