Lord Tyrannus, thy tongue is sharp
To compensate your dullish mind
You claim your scythe produces Art
Yet you no little of its kind

If by a poem you dare seek
To besmirch my Lord Bard's domain
I say your scythe would better keep
To hewing grasses, wheats, or grains

A scarlet fog has filled your brain
It's clear there's nothing can be done
Except perhaps to amputate
And dry the pieces in the sun

Mhaldor's legacy of failure
Could nary be better maintained
I'll send you Sartan's portraiture
So you can blow it up again.

But at the very least, I s'pose
You've entertained us well and true
"Thank you," I say, for all the droves
Who've had a hearty laugh at you

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Scarlatan, in the year 944 AF.