As the Reach concedes its loss,
A new Chair rises within days.
To reach the top, above the dross,
He does his fighting out of phase.
He has that politician's spark,
To leave his kin lie under barrows:
Lupine bows can't hit their mark
When nocked with naught but crooked Aros.



Penned by my hand on Closday, the 9th of Slyphian, in the year 505 MA.