I compose for you, Qor Qogol, a melody black,
In memory of puppets commandeered by a quack.

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Your rotting bones are denied rightful rest,
Disquieting, the rattled rhythms of your distress.

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Emptied are your tombs, hollowed, your cries,
Forsaken to madness and antiquated lies.

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Falsehead, Scornshield, Glintspear,
Ironbroken, Flinteye, Vinderheim.

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These the names forgotten, ground to dust,
Whilst a singular Scolrys looks 'pon my shoes in lust.

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Promises we make, Promises we keep,
As we liberate your city midst laments of that creep.

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Hilunite will once again stir a craze,
Hlugnic artistry pulled entirely from phase.

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Every secret, every priceless gem, every song once sung,
Will find life everlasting upon our tongues.


The Red Tyrant

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 20th of Celes, in the year 4 AC.