I fly a whale the size of moons, With bulk to shame a fleet of Goons. My mass could blot the stars from view— Yet all I hold is one damn shoe!
(angry, rythmic) Ten million cubes, and no damn room! My hold’s a joke, a miner’s tomb! Who built this hull? What were they on? One belt and then my payload’s gone!
I float like kings through frozen skies, With drones that strip the ice in lines. But fifteen crates and I’m full tight— While bulkheads echo, empty, light.
Ten million cubes, and no damn room! My hold’s a joke, a miner’s tomb! Who built this hull? What were they on? One belt and then my payload’s gone!
I’ve tanks for gas, I’ve bays for drones, Compartments stacked like nested thrones. But rorquals laugh and freighters sneer— "Look at that Orca! Full again, dear."
(now sarcastically) Ten million cubes, and no damn room! My hold’s a joke, a miner’s tomb! Who built this hull? What were they on? One belt and then my payload’s gone!
So CCP, hear now my cry: If I must mine, then let me ply! Give me space or give me grief, But don’t pretend this load’s efficient beef!
(now SCREAMING WITH ANGER) Ten million cubes, and no damn room! My hold’s a joke, a miner’s tomb! A castle wide with closets thin— The Orca’s curse: it can't fit in!