Wilted Garland, by Ser Ardghal Lachlann

Thy dueling skills art poor, 'tis plain to see,

Yet thy penning skills art worse, woe unto thee!

Blade crossed blade upon that fateful day,

Still 'twas thee who broke mine own midway.

Before I could thy lifeblood freely shed,

Thou didst intrude and brought crossbows instead!

No more ‘Gallant’; thy name is a jest,

‘Rotten’ suits thee far better at best.

Thou speak'st of mine friend, the lady Meriel,

As though thy warlocks didst weave me no peril.

Thy bars hath been penned in scribes long past,

Didst thou hire another, whose wit holds fast?

One oafish as thee, a scourge to fair maidens,

Could ne'er win a lover, much less write verses laden.

Despite thy gold armor and blond hair to match,

A cur thou art, from sewer’s filth didst thou hatch.

Ask any poor maiden, by thy hand marred and distressed,

‘Rotten’ suits thee far better at best.

Thy seek my dishonor, a desperate quest,

I bid thee beware, for ‘tis shall only lead to eternal rest.

As for disgracing thee, I have no need,

For thy honor’s worth is nary half a crown indeed.

Proclaim I have, of thy’s title best match,

Lament, ‘Garland the Rotten’, for that is the name thou’lt snatch.

And this song I close, with but one reprieve,

That thou read’st mine verses, and verily grieve!