The bell tolls, gone is the taste of best
For we put scathing rhyme today to a well deserved rest.
Oders cry, Epics mourn
For the age of taste is gorn

For it is a sad sight indeed
To those, of a certain breed
To see poetry conducted
By a thief and a weed

So heed my ill built warnings
when you're most sober in the mornings
to avoid the trap of assailing bad verse
Following the fool is much, much worse.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Mayan, in the year 452 AF.