(Best sung mournfully with a righteous edge. Best accompanied by instruments dug up from attics, played by work-worn hands)

Betwixt your constant vigilance,
And eye for far off things,
You've learned to recognize the face,
From which a shout might ring.

Then why, oh why must I be told,
When I choose to raise my voice,
That I'm perceived as Mediocre Poet,
And not Farmer Jahn Al'Royce.

Oh, Adventurers do the leading,
The posturing and the flyting.
Adventurers do the shouting;
The nameless, do the dying.

It's always "help" or "task" or "quest",
When one of you stops by,
Ne'r "How's your day going, Jahn?",
"Your farm yard caught my eye".

When I deign to share new thoughts,
A horde come hear my spiel,
But when I tend to my inner life,
My scant callers come to KILL.

Oh, Adventurers do the leading,
The posturing and the flyting.
Adventurers do the shouting;
The nameless, do the dying.

I've been bonked and slashed and stabbed,
Been covered up in rime,
Been set a alight and dragon breathed,
Seen Death's Seat a thousand times.

Well, they say the soulrealms cold,
But when Ugrach makes my final choice,
Have a drink for the chilled spirit,
Of Poet-Farmer Jahn Al'Royce.

Oh, Adventurers do the smashing,
The slashing and the frying.
Adventurers do the killing;
The nameless, do the dying.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Scarlatan, in the year 982 AF.