Aden you idiot, you sad scum of the earth
I curse your foul mother who first gave you birth
and were I to meet her in city or field
I'd cut open the womb that allowed her to yield

I'm sad to sink to the level of your lot
But I've never seen a knave with less sense than you've got
nor a chicken nor a dog nor a chipmunk abroad
That doesn't urge me to ask Arion, that brave loving God

To hand you the intelligence he once handed a troll
To give back to you what Chakrasul never stole
To lend you a bit in the part where it counts
In the parts where I'm guessing you've not got great amounts

It hurts me to say this but sadly it's true
There's just no accounting the things that you do
There just aren't excuses for your sick and sad killing
To speak not with words, but with endless blood spilling

What could be the reason you've improved your vast might?
Instead of sending your wits off to fight
I see your skills can speak where you're unable
I wonder if riches come into this fable?

If I were to show you a mirror I wonder what'd occur?
I wonder what a vision that would soon stir
But then considering you're a narcisstic fool
You'd probably stand there, starting to drool

At what you saw a fine visage, at what we saw a poor lot
Hate to say it a looker you certainly are not
But there are lot's of things, I could go on and on
But such is my story, and now I am gone.
But don't worry Aden. I call the score even. Though if you further
pursue this I'll see your head on a pike.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Midautumn, in the year 119 MA.