Elocute, you wretched man -
holler loud as best you can;
ever noisome, hissing, spying,
never blamed - the crowing, crying
eggheads skew your every plan.

Mark me: soon, you'll be heard,
and then you'll be the evening bird
roosting - singing - in the shade,
smoothing every feather strayed;
yes, you'll rule a holler starred -
a golden nest! - with liars tarred...
soon as biased minds are swayed.

Brave the gaze, little bard -
aspire, toil, agonise;
rise above the odd canard -
duck the voice that falsifies.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Lupar, in the year 987 AF.