Since I won't have an epitaph,
Let me suggest an epithet-
He wrote to make the others laugh.
He never burrowed, he never lent.

He let go a chance to have a grave,
Forsook his footing on solid ground,
To seek that which the lost might crave,
To hold head high 'neath leper's crown.

And though there may be those who groan,
He did so to help flowers grow.
Icons burned and black flag flown,
To carve the river a path to flow.

For rope's strength lies within its braid,
But e'ry disembowel needs a brain.
A soured sheaf against the grain.
A stinging nettle contra-grade.

Hold on a sec, I have them swapped,
In line's one and two, you make the switch.
Well now this work is fully Blonk'd.
I've pitched the fix, so don't complain.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Lupar, in the year 982 AF.