Wherein we lay, this intrinsic truth,
That seldom few will read,
But dear Nixxe, I must deign to say,
Your poems cause my eyes to bleed.

There is no rhyme, there is no metre,
No epic, daring tales,
Just random breaks in sentences,
And a sound, unlike a quail.

So please, dear Nixxe, please repent,
Your troubled poetic ways,
And keep your poems where they suit you best,
Which is, to say, your says.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Mayan, in the year 582 AF.