Tesha, the Tangle-tongue, crone of delay,
You twist time like truth, then slink far away.
Your magica a crutch, not might in your corea"You fight like a coward whoa locked her own door.

Your grove sings no praise, just groans at your name,
A frostbitten fraud in a springtide's acclaim.
You chant and you warp, then preen like a hawk,
But break like dry twigs when pulled from your clock.

A true storm stands naked with fury to fling,
You hide in your bubble and cower and cling.
Retardationa your refuge, your cradle, your crutcha"Without it, you're windlessa" whisper, not much.

Ia e seen squirrels with spine, seen moss with more will,
Yet you pose as a queen atop your glass hill.
So cast all your spells, twist time as you darea"It wona stop the truth: you're just hot air.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Mayan, in the year 976 AF.