Aziz, you sing of my timeless might,
In longing verses, bold,
But I, Grandue, reign from dizzying height,
Where mortal fans unfold.

Your adoration, a fleeting breeze,
A whisper in the night,
For I, Grandue, can hardly seize
Your name amidst my sight.

Aziz or Ante, what a blur,
Your praises blend the same,
A symphony I barely hear,
Lost in my own acclaim.

You dangle from my mighty tit,
Finding sustenance in prose,
An addict to my sultry wit,
In thrall to every dose.

While flattered by your ardent call,
I stand above the fray,
Requests? I do not heed them all,
My whims chart their own way.

So chase your randy dreams, dear fan,
In Hashan's moonlit glow,
Where women's negotiable affections
Are yours to come and go.

For I, Grandue, must wean you now,
From cravings deep and wild,
Seek pleasures that the night allows,
And think no more of me, my child.

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Phaestian, in the year 950 AF.