On Rust’s island, start with none,
Just rock in hand and rising sun.
The beaches stretch, the forests deep,
Where danger stirs and raiders creep.

Gather wood, scrap and grind,
With mats and cloth, you build and bind.
By fires warm, your bag, your place,
You learn to live in hostile space.

Through day and night, you’re never still,
With bow in hand, you hunt and kill.
Each step a risk, each move a fight,
Survival the prize, but fear the price.

Their base stands tall, but not for long,
You creep in close, your weapons strong.
With bombs and force, their loot you claim,
And leave their home in ash and flame.

Old, worn monuments, rusted red,
Echo tales of those long dead.
But still, we press, through death and spite—
In Rust, we live, wipe after wipe.