for a friend.

there once was a man, a lovely lout
whose friend had a habit of switching about
the course of her syntax, which was often dire
miswielding her mace of lovely bright fire
To swing at her friends and not her foes
and misplacing smiles, smites, and blows
And yet must he wonder, yes there is no doubt
Just what could he think all her smiles were about

No don't miss her meaning, it couldn't be true
But I would beware her smiles were I you

All my love and responsive jest herein enclosed for you, my most lovely
lout.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Khepary, in the year 133 MA.