What Joy

Oh Joy I am replete!
The results of this cognition,
Of Your thoughts I am escheat!
Causing this glad disposition.

Before my happiness displodes
I submit to arbitrator,
A heart and mind so impastoed
Of fancies of a literator.

When alas this accolade,
Your Prophet I was anointed.
A million gold could not dissuade.
From this office I'm appointed.

And upon Your grand return!
That day we've all awaited!
When every forge fire shall burn!
Dwarven beards all nicely plaited.

The name of Phaestus shall be lauded!
From each mountain's mighty voice!
The very earth will have applauded!
And every voice shall then rejoice!

-Mayapple, the Prophet

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Miraman, in the year 414 AF.