Install Steam
sign in
|
language
简体中文 (Simplified Chinese)
繁體中文 (Traditional Chinese)
日本語 (Japanese)
한국어 (Korean)
ไทย (Thai)
Български (Bulgarian)
Čeština (Czech)
Dansk (Danish)
Deutsch (German)
Español - España (Spanish - Spain)
Español - Latinoamérica (Spanish - Latin America)
Ελληνικά (Greek)
Français (French)
Italiano (Italian)
Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
Magyar (Hungarian)
Nederlands (Dutch)
Norsk (Norwegian)
Polski (Polish)
Português (Portuguese - Portugal)
Português - Brasil (Portuguese - Brazil)
Română (Romanian)
Русский (Russian)
Suomi (Finnish)
Svenska (Swedish)
Türkçe (Turkish)
Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
Українська (Ukrainian)
Report a translation problem

Chad
looking way too confident for a creature down low.
He wore trash can armor, a lid as a crown,
like he didn’t believe in the word “backing down.”
He’d raid every alley like it was a game,
turning “stealing snacks” into internet fame.
Hot dog in paw like a legendary sword,
daring the world to come settle the score.
I asked him, “Reggie, why live like a thief?”
He shrugged like, “Bro, it’s just cost-of-living grief.”
Then he moonwalked off with a stolen french fry,
while maintaining intense eye-contact with sky.
Now every night when the city goes still,
I swear I can hear little trash-can thrills.
Reggie the Raccoon, no rules, no plan,
just chaos in fur with a five-star scam.