Darky darky sparky death
I will take away your breath.
As soon as I can find an imaginative way to take your life,
I will send you to gloomy death fife.
For you are none too quick to please,
because you smell like rotten cheese.
Your poetry sucks, the lines don't match,
and stupid schemes you constantly hatch.
(Shut up, you rogues! This is the library!)
You walk around worthless, like a little fairy.
What good are you to this fair land?
What dreams fulfilled by your small hand?
None.
Which is my point.
Nobody will save you, or your wounds annoint.
No soul on Sapience remembers your name.
Your poetry is always drab and lame.
Forever you sought laughter and fame.
Now your time's up, it's the end of your game.

'*cough*
right, it just flowed. Welcome back, Achaea.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Mayan, in the year 267 AF.