Greetings, All! In the light of our recent hostilities in the Poetry
section, I've decided to write a poem about a man. A man very, very dear
to us.

And this is what I have to say.

Lasting impressions given to us.
Horrors of madness, of insatiable lust.
His beauty, akin to a pig smothered in dust.
Oft his revenge, he must, he must.

Touched in the head,
stuck in the trees.
Countless fall dead,
at the sight of his fleas.

But yet, if I may,
this poem shall convey:
Not how many he shan't slay,
or what he drank all day.

But ... its just,
I've got this feeling,

That Mr. Siyad's g--


Jaybles K. Xanatov
Blade Aspirant,
Sentry of Mhaldor

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Aeguary, in the year 524 AF.