For once the Archon relieves his scribe
To pen a feckless and fetid diatribe
Throughout the land, his morose life reviled
Wields rhetoric with the grace of a child

One man oblivious, one man benighted
Both stand beneath the black sky unsighted
One speaks of purpose forlorn and languished
The other compiles laments anguished

At purity strangled, of souls now expunged
Of once great city, into abyss plunged
On refugees with whom he once broke bread
And deafening quietude of those long-dead

Where putrescent bile flows in place of ink
I'll make the time to put aside my drink
And bestow you with this, a brief retort
To quash the glaring errors of your thought

For all talk of my insubstantial past
You found abundant need to so broadcast
I wonder what is the rationale
To be my sweet, embittered, dry pen-pal

Could it be you don't believe your own word?
An adolescent desire to be heard?
That I rule a kingdom within your head
And keep you awake when you're in bed?

Compensation for what you're lacking?
A lacklustre weapon you might be packing?
Admiration from a poet of renown?
Looking to launder that old rusted crown?

In any case, I gratefully receive
Acetous verse you painstakingly weave
Every line my ego may feast upon
When the only one worth hailing is Elyon

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Glacian, in the year 925 AF.