I guess here, now, that some would say,
How things would go downhill.
For mortal or Divine alike,
They love to feel that thrill.

They put the show, the make the grade
And always past the test,
To make the other person feel,
Less better than the rest.

A competetion, going strong
From one will to the next,
Instead of swords, or pointy things,
You use the weapon: Text.

I say this not to scorn you,
Or to tell you can't love,
But just to say, what others think,
Is THIS what You're above?

Mortals are such silly things,
You know this more than I,
And in the words, of Sog the Great:
"I cannot tell a lie."

So here I sit, my quill in hand,
To pen this pointless song,
And wonder why, I kept it up,
That it's gone on this long.

Woe be me, I must admit,
I did not want to state,
The things that all are thinking now,
And most of them, irate.

So please now, Lady Lorielan,
Do tell us what's to come.
And if it's true, there's something more,
I'll be first in line for some.

I appreciate Your time with this,
The recounting of this rhyme,
So I doff Thee well, and part my way,
With what this final line.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Phaestian, in the year 400 AF.