See these mortals freshly fried?
Newly cooked, these mortals died
For the disfavor of the divine.

A tongue did slip, and to wit
It tasted good with honeyed sauce
For such flavor, who would count the loss?

Of one less mortal, standing fried?
Or would that be lying, as they died?
Laid prone by that firey blue bolt.

Mortals take note, of this rote,
When prone to insolence, please note,
The divine, who bear in mind,

Across the land, will not be kind
To insolent lip, and defiling hand
Unless you wish to be a barbequed man

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Miraman, in the year 387 AF.