There comes a day,
Once in many moons,
When a mortal need say,
A Divine bringeth doom soon.

Drinking of his draught,
Is how He spends his day,
What we shall have is naught,
If he has his own say.

His mug he continues to down,
Ever onward, he shall gorge.
Phaestus has a tankard Crown,
As he drinks, near his forge.

Our Great Queen Bovine,
He does continue to deny,
Never once did I whine,
As I was forced to fry.

Soon he said, unto me,
Dinner I shall, for him, buy.
Honored, as one should be,
Against it, I shall never vie.

Here and now, I cease to write,
Of our greatest Lord and Knight,
Who works away, beyond our sight,
Wielding a tankard, by forges light.

-------
In all possible humor, I have written these words. My words are
objective, and no disrespect is intended.
To forge while schmoozed must take an incredible, nay, a Divine level of
skill. Kudos to you, Lord Phaestus.
Proudly forge your way to your next tankard, with every last bit of my
respect, awe, and admiration.

Yours in all due humour,
Professor Hiroma Moliuvia, Ethereal Magister of Iron


Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 602 AF.