Trole, you stole the bridge, but the spot isn't yours;
You lounge under the arches like a dog on all fours.
You're as quiet as a mouse, but your claim won't come true
That bridge has a true tenant, and that tenant isn't you.

You loiter on the Zaphar, pretending you belong,
But splashing in the water doesn't make your claim less wrong.
You can camp in the shadows, you can think it's meant to be
The bridge knows its own guardian, and that guardian's me.

You call it your home, your patch of moss and stone;
The Zaphar's current knows who truly calls it home.
Trole, you're just a guest here, only passing through
Delos has a rightful bridge-dweller, and it ain't you.

I, Zargoth, claim the bridge, and keep its stones in place,
I sweep all the trash and leaves a spotless space.
Your lease is over, Trole, your time here's through;
And when I throw out all this trash, it'll include you!

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Chronos, in the year 1018 AF.