Mangled you may be my dear friend;
Lost in a flurry of smoke and barrel,
Riding a stallion sans a saddle,
Glancing fervently at warm love’s end
Pondering what the midnight songs portend
Pondering why times your joys addle
And why is life such a bloody gamble
And so, my friend, you drink disheartened;
But mangled are not the coming days
Neither loss nor fear shall reckon you again,
Doleful you fight; gremlins you shall slay
In thatched huts stay yet happy remain,
For upon my lips and my rhyme – your name.
Blotched Parchment 
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