Wherever I turned,
shiftless gazes caught me,
eyeing my medicine bag,
and preparing to flee.

Lurk elsewhere beggars!
Stay in the dark.
I'm not who you think --
Just another hapless mark.

My father's important.
My mother's like a queen.
If you've ever met my sister,
then you know her entities.

She'll cover you in slime
and then possess your souls.
And she's my little sibling,
so you can guess how big sis rolls!

They call me the savage
Daughter of Bones, you see.
I already have a fetish pot
made from sister number three.

So unless you want your neck snapped
and your skull shrunken in,
go crawl back in the sewers
or you'll soon be a has-been.

My last syllable hadn't even fallen.
My voice was still aloft
when the nasty little pickpockets
decided to turn soft.

Kneeling in the alleyway,
they whimpered and they groaned.
The Minister of Culture
decided just then to intone.

Urchins are like everyone.
I once was one, Tru.
Be nicer to the little ones.
They can be Chaotic too!

Snickering in their shirt sleeves,
they gave me an evil grin.
Then tried to pocket my new pack
made of caribou skin.

I waited until she left
and lured all them to Martin's Sorrow,
and where the buildings push together,
I extracted one's bone marrow.

Quivering flesh faltered, sloughing,
then fell upon the ground.
The rest fled so quickly,
I didn't hear a sound.

But if you stand above the sewer grates,
and listen carefully,
you'll hear a haunting tune
those guttersnipes still sing about me.




Penned by my hand on the 18th of Glacian, in the year 742 AF.