A Bard, a poet does not make
For rhyme is a gift given to the few
An illusiory dragon-debonair
With so much time and nothing to do.

Some asked why, others cared not
While to yet others the answer was known
For over the years we have all been subjected
To listen to the jaded herald's drone.

Battles are easily fought by sword and by fist
And by harmonics both silent and heard
But as for the lyric and for the verse
There is no stronger weapon than Word.

Time will hasten on
And Hell's ice will chill the bone
And my stomach too is churning
Having read your -- "poem."

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Miraman, in the year 379 AF.