To disregard a fear of sounding trite,
The reason why I write is the same reason I fight,
It's to incite those who can't stand the sight of blight,
To put the fright of the light in un-contrite acoylytes,
So eat your azurite; and watch an Execrant work,
A poetic jerk absolutely going berkserk,
On mercs; sheltered aught by a smirk and a cloth heuberk,
Then lurking to shirk the clumsy berk with a quill or a dirk,
Really, it's a perk; For those who can think quick on their feet,
A clever quip is just the treat to torment any foe in defeat,
So send your fleets, replete as they are obsolete,
And Blonk will mete out a beating, leave their backseat black and bleating.

When the void comes; I'll be screaming into it,
When the shackles lock; I'll fashion myself a pick,
You can't break something that's broken itself,
I've already shelved my doubts - and destroyed the shelf.

When the void comes; I'll be screaming into it,
When the shackles lock; I'll fashion myself a pick,
You can't break something that's broken itself,
I've already shelved my doubts - and destroyed the shelf.

And after it all, when my friends are safe in paradise,
I'll take my last heel turn and show you all Blonk's not so nice.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Chronos, in the year 1001 AF.