oh Helvijs, my savior, my awper, my goat—
grant me the strength to hold and not tilt,
to stay calm when the round is already gone,
to shoot like you when it matters.

when they say “botky,” I ask… who?
for I have only known goatky.
even when you whiff (rare, blessed moments),
my faith does not waver.

in the chaos, you are still.
in the clutch, you are certain.
where others spray and panic,
you simply click… eventually.

so when it’s my turn, last alive,
with noise in my ears and doubt in my aim—
I call your name.

```
broky.
```

and I hold. and I trust. and I click
(or at least… I try).