And it seems, thus, you'd rather be embarassed than dead,
but, I strongly recommend a healer attends to your head.
Further mockery ensues, and you still cannot spell,
and reading your writing is like going through hell.

Your fury is sparked, such that you make even less sense,
you need to define yourself at times, how can you be so dense?
Many a time have I defined it, North of Trees is not under my rule,
but you will not enforce what you cannot receive, lest ye be a fool.

Your attempts to belittle me? I pay very little heed,
as you've made it quite obvious, you can't so much as read.
Believe me when I tell you the truth of what remains,
you are hardly the one to talk about brains.

You break your own scheme, your own little rhyme,
it should be that your possession of a quill is a crime.
Reading your stupidity truly makes my eyes bleed,
I hope, for mercy's sake, there are no more of your creed.

You confess to adore the grace of a god,
but the way you show this is actually rather odd.
Your words won't stop coming, they're continuously spilling,
you wish, behind peace, for a barrage of killing.

Remind me later to kill the keeper of your score,
their lack of known addition could warrant its own war.
Surprising you pay so much attention to me,
perhaps you care more than you make others believe?

Creating your own words will not make you great,
it only ensures that your opinions have no weight.

Continue to flail, continue to pine and cry,
for once, I find you amusing, and I'm sure all can see why.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Chakros, in the year 136 MA.