These weren't hardened heroes,
Nor men with knees to bend.
He wouldn't offer them candy, or a cup of brandy.
Wine tasted awful, swill fit for fools,
Prienne's fearful tools.
Stillness gave them measure, much more than beyond,
Song was a weapon he had no means to produce,
Vocal cords of such quantity couldn't bring odds to bear,
Upon the likeliest of hoods that could wrap around his head,
Full of idealism, hopes of freedom and amnesty,
From an execution savored by the cleansed palate,
Of Toblin's passed on habit.
Lifted by a song leashed fellow,
Final crows and ravens would bellow,
As age revealed him a discheveled fellow.
Beneath a shroud of regret.
That blade could whistle his name but,
A crowd of ravenous onlookers,
Engorged on death and bloodied wine,
Wouldn't say his name in time.