Thy grammer doth show scant improvement thus far
And thy meter lacks rhythm or flow
To th'insipid men that thy words would fain scar
Thy pettiness thou dost show.

So Wren, leave thy quill on the table
And get out into the clear fresh air
At saga, ballad or fable
Thou dost lack that all-important flair.
And realise one thing, if thou art able:
Wren, we really don't care.


Penned by my hand on the 20th of Tenebrae, in the year 467 AD.