You lack the wit to wield a quill,
To bend your words beneath your will
And craft a song that's barbed and cold
With bitter humour, nor to mould
The insults that you feign to find -
The ramblings of a troubled mind.

Wren, dear Wren, the Duchess fair
of Kinsarmar, that city rare
Bedecked in jewels, and in stone,
That watches o'er the North alone,
And she, the staunchest of them all,
The warrioress, so bold and small.

Hypocrisy is simply found
In logic that flows swiftly round
In circles, through her mighty brain,
That stoops to ours, when she will deign
To bless us with her words of truth,
And educate us all, forsooth.

She pokes fun at the pride of men,
Their pettiness, and yet, dear Wren,
We see within your life the same
That you so wisely deem a game
Of hollow words and hollow lives,
Of those who cheat upon their wives.

Despicable? I quite agree!
Our land would benefit if we
Would simply heed her clarion call,
And lend our ear aright to all
That she so well rebukes us of,
Her motive, I am sure, is love.

Yes, love! I say, her motive pure,
Her heart is kind, her vision sure,
She stands like some fair testament
Of truth and wisdom heaven sent.
And yet, and yet, I feel an itch
To close by saying... Wren's a bitch.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Solis, in the year 466 AD.