Heed the humble song sung, for our of mercy.
Rivers run red, or dry; both make thirsty.
Headway made, built on bunk-lies,
Moonlit coven, drunk cult of flies.
Swarm around, deceit smells of roses.
Grow up, meet the threat truth poses.
Or offend all who're wise, and all our noses.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Scarlatan, in the year 954 AF.