there is a woman i know, who's husbands quite the mole.
he sits and drinks all day, thinking from a golden bowl.
so i creep up with my sword already drawn, i slit his throat and make
him bleed.
now on to the wife, to tell her of my deed.
what have you done she cries,
if my husband has been slain so shall I.
so here I am, a wandering poet, my blade is bloody and doesn't know it.
but it cuts sure and true,
and makes widows turn blue.

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Scarlatan, in the year 526 AF.