If of reading ye fast tire then I cannot fault thy teachers
What were they to do, pray tell, saddled with a dimwit creature
Rebounding smoke returned the blows dealt out by thy buffoon's hammer
Required now to use thy brain, all ye do is trip and stammer

When they ask ye what thy name is all ye do is slowly blink
"Please don't rush me here," ye say, "I just need some time to think"
Ye do thy mighty best but still, all ye can is draw a blank
Clown face turned to frown face, wretched victim of some Divine prank
So here is one last lesson, and if this one too, ye flunk
We're downgrading ye a vowel, we're demoting ye to 'Blunk'

Ye turn to slants like rhymes are crimes, afraid
Like the East begs for saviours, deploys seventeen-year-old child labour
Do thyself a favor and don't bash a cleric who preaches
Tradition, something sacred, we don't all swap beliefs like breeches
Ye and I are not the same, not even on one plane
Ye say rain cannot feel pain but we Subjugated Water
And Fire's not far behind, we'll throw chains and ye'll remain
Fickle as ye always are, Sultans, Caliphs, now Dawnlords
What holy text will ye adopt when the battle is too fraught
What principles will ye discard when the going gets too hard
If ye don't like a law rewrite it, but what kind of credo is to redo
The kind for people that lack a spine, seek to rewind
Turn back the sands of time to a brighter past
But old Shallam sank for a reason
Against the Truth it committed treason
Not just one but all Seven
And ye go against a caster
Thinking I can't sling spells faster?
Serve the Righteous Fire?
Ye are just a riotous farce.
A Blonk poem writ on paper
Is only fit to wipe an arse.


Penned by my hand on the 15th of Ero, in the year 955 AF.