My Ironbeard wish
is not for a dish
of peach cobbler with ice cream.

My Ironbeard hope
is not fancy soap
that smells like a glittery dream.

This Logosmas season
I want only one thing,
and I'll tell you the reason
it's not a fistful of glittery pink rings.

My Ironbeard want
is not a Delos storefront
within which to sell shiny things.

My Ironbeard prayer
is not flamingo-pink hair.
I just can't bear to hear them scream.

As you nestle in your bed
with your husbands and wives,
I'll be at the Pachacacha
fearing for newbie lives.

Upon the banks, I'll await
for a Virtusoi recruit
led by Perl under the guise
of an artistic commute.

When the noob reaches the pier
I'll be waiting near-
by to call out a warning
to prevent our mourning
these kids as their waterlogged bodies
bobs like headless chickadees
right into the Pash Delta
where oysters take shelter.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Valnuary, in the year 846 AF.