you made prudent choice to join a known Darkwalker's sect
and with the hope of gaining just a little respect
without the foresight to know the premise was suspect
strayed away from the source and now your cult is all wrecked

a historical mannequin with poor potential
a yes man too compliant to be deemed inessential
now a cancer on the land with growth exponential
with six hundred years entirely inconsequential

Grandue Xeh'ria, dreaded keeper of the Iron Crown
archaic masquerade an attempt to conceal a clown
come to power through gross complacency of your town
led them to elect a nobody with dismal renown

amazing to think the subject of Sapience's loathing
now helps run a city that struggles to sell clothing
still unclear to you why every business is closing?
got no time to govern and spend your time reposing

following the path of your duplicitous messiah
but the only prophet here goes to your gleam supplier
quite hot headed, you resort to being a liar
good thing your class is historically weak to fire


Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Mayan, in the year 915 AF.