If that is the best poem ye can muster,
Spraying spittle in rancorous bluster,
Of course ye serve a second-rate god,
Bereft of Hardship ye plod,
Imagining fools' gold has bloodsteel's bright luster.

In seeking to prove thy people's worth
Ye bumblers will stumble to misfortune again
Of true heroes ye have a perilous dearth
Fact obscured by thy fairweather friends

True Art ye will not attain
My scythe is my brush
Thy rot-blood my chosen paint

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Scarlatan, in the year 944 AF.