Oh, Golden Pan, thou gilded myth, so bright,

A shining tool of fortune’s cruel delight

Yet why must coin determine worth so steep,

When dreams are made in battles fierce and deep?

Thy clang, like church bells in the war-torn dusk,

Rings not for kings, but mortals bathed in musk.

A thousand souls have chased thy glinting edge,

Through crates and trades and wallet’s solemn pledge.

But hear me now, ye market gods above,

Is golden death worth all this lack of love?

Shall Pan be held by only gilded few,

While common hands must dream in shades of blue?

What virtue lies in rareness, cold and thin,

When laughter, blood, and skill all lie within?

Let mercy forge a path through Mann Co. wide,

And place the Pan by every dreamer’s side.

Reduce thy cost nay, break the greedy thread,

For 0.05 refined, let joy be spread.

So every Scout and Sniper too may feel

The holy clang that makes the battle real.

No longer bound by crates or profit’s plan,

Let freedom ring from every battered Pan.