Dangling off the spit
Flesh smoldering, roasted.
I see no laureate.
There is no trophy.
Only the vessel, that
Became a vassal in service
To culinary disaster.

You turn on that spit
Believing you bask
In venerated stares.
But there is no audience
For the Mares floozy.
Only the flames and
Your cart of tainted milk
Keep you company.

Stubborn wench.
Misguided fool.
I adored you, my friend.
Before you lost your way.
So dangle there, without
A modicum of modesty.
When your sense returns
I will be the first to
Welcome you back.

Until then, burn.
You milk laden bitch.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Scarlatan, in the year 867 AF.