You were right to call this part two, it's the same beat and meter,
You've stumbled into the preacher's trap, a veritable pulpit repeater.
Don't lose faith, you'll find a hobby that fits your, hm, demeanor,
Let's just hope it fits you better than being a city leader.

I thought you'd taken trade as a postman, the way you send out letters,
Begging anyone that can swing a sword, to put on your lord's fetters.
You even took the chance in your stilted verse to lure in moral debtors,
No doubt you're MVP on your team, I've seen those bed-wetters.

And if you sought to cast self down, damn you've been successful,
Ne'er heard more tired verses and MY heads an empty vessel.
I'm glad you wrote, now I retort, the others were more stressful,
I'm aware you're shackled to rot earth, but I speak rhymes celestial.

But I'm just wonderin'.
Can you change the way you speak?
Your flow is meek,
Chained to tradition deep,
You seek to keep,
Patterns old and weak,
Stumbling up hills steep,
Vernacular condemned to the junk heap,
Ye. Olde. Rhymes. All. Reek.

And that's just all to say,
That the way you try to explain,
The pathway to "strength" gain,
Is like explaining hay to waves,
like telling rain about pain,
like hearing tame shame claims,
from the Universal Membrane.

What I mean is, we've all found something worth more,
Sorely needed stores for our veneration reservoirs.
Ways to serve creation that aren't vapid slavery,
Dressed up with some gossamer, worn out, dirty drapery.

The only question left from your silly rant, if adults are speaking,
Surely someone else on your island could say something more intriguing.
Cuz we've heard your tired verses, just the same old stories,
I may know naught about your nation, but last I checked they were Tyrannical Territories.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Aeguary, in the year 955 AF.