slick his greasy mullet back,
crack each of his knuckles,
beads of sweat roll down his back.
He'll insert the quarters,
as his ravishing begins,
they call him the crusader,
and he won't stop 'til he wins.
Chorus:
Pinball Crusader,
where did you come from?
How can you afford to live in this arcade,
and why do you look so dumb?
Pinball Crusader,
more than just a bum.
Defend us with the mighty, mighty justice,
of your finger and your thumb.
He'll bust out the Tekken two,
and Mortal Kombat three,
tearin' up Galaxian,
while he's crusin' USA.
He likes to kick it old school,
he'll give Pac-Man a new high,
the crowds all mass behind him,
it's as if he'll never die.
(chorus)
And the battle raged,
as he approached the long steel beast,
snapped the lever back, let go,
the tiny ball released.
The ball would juke, attempt to fake,
for hours he'd contend,
until the ball rolled through the flippers,
and the battle reached its end.
(chorus)
There was no cry of agony,
no free-flailing rage,
just a quote of modesty,
"Tomorrow's another day."
With that the Crusader turned around,
his pupils in awe,
as he walked into the sunset,
you could hear them call...
(chorus)