A mountain village high above the vale,
Where artists come to celebrate their craft
With fellow dilettantes, hardy and hale,
Who sing a merry tune and raise a glass

In honor of The Bard by Whom we're blessed.
The Caer has seen its share of troubled times.
A truth to which the archers can attest,
Who pay the guilty for their artless crimes.

So, if you have a vibrant song to sing,
A canvas waiting for a dab of paint,
And if you wish to climb the Highland stair;
Be certain that it's only love you bring.
You need not be a pauper nor a saint
To find yourself at home in Winter's Caer.

...
[And if you prefer the version with an extra line, have at it!]

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Sarapin, in the year 855 AF.