In calm repose, a jester sits,
His mind inclined to battle wits,
And so with courage few could claim,
He dashed some lines and signed his name.

A pox on feuding countrymen,
The endless war we never win,
And could we please, oh wouldn't we,
Conduct our battles privately?

Our fight disturbs the queen of fools,
Shall we observe her gentle rules?
In decency to acquiesce,
With quietude, her wounds redress.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Lupar, in the year 551 AF.