Well look who’s still standin’... barely.

You’ve wrangled riddles, kissed the stars,

And now you’re facin’ a box full of scars.

This here machine? She don’t make friends.

She makes winners. And sore rear ends.

Slide your dollar in like it’s high noon,

And pray she don’t spit out doom too soon.

She’s got no mercy, no rules, no shame—

Just blinkin’ lights and the hunger for names.

She launches tabs like lead from a gun,

And each one could mean you’ve finally won.

If you’re brave enough, step up and growl:

“Let’er rip, darlin’ — this cowboy’s foul.”

Then pull that tab like a barroom bell,

And the next clue’ll fall, straight outta hell.*