O' there once was a man with bequeathed grave title, the moniker of sleepy joe,
To amnestic tendencies was he entitled, the most elder consciousness boughed,
But on this day, the moon of three, the season of wretched combat yet free,
His service was needed by she unseen, the administrator of such violent glee.
A deal was offered to he of slow wit, his senses are yet to return,
Should he swear himself to side of red, to be young he need not yearn,
And so crackhead strength flowed through joe's veins,
One among mercs just equally insane.
