Mouths fall open in awe, astonished,
for, before them is the epitome of silliness, moreso than they'd wished.
Her words are slurred, she sounds rather drunk,
and those who walk near her can confess of her funk.

She is one who makes threats and spouts unthought-out word,
she'll cry, and she'll flail, until she's sure she's been heard.
Surely, behind grace, one could never find a blade or mace,
buried righteously in the center of that snivelling face.

Literacy's not her greatest talent, words her tongue seldom can balance,
and it often seems she attempts wit with very little valiance.
There is no surprise, no astonishment that she's not happy,
and I'm sure you'd agree if you realized her gums never cease flapping.

How low that it is, through the use of a quill,
no greatness is spread, no hope of goodwill.
Yet, terrorize the ideals of the Beacon once more,
and you will soon find your corpse akin to the floor.

Thankfully, it's the end, no doubt she'll be persisting,
for if you haven't gotten it yet, I speak only of Misty.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Chakros, in the year 136 MA.