Andulan was perplexed,
She was trying but they weren't dying,
I've never encountered song like this,
You seven are the real deal, not copies,
Like Toblin's, or should I say Prienne's,
Untalented singers, musicians and sycophants,
Stooges all, fit only to sate my unfortunate, burdensome thirst,
When I find it appropriate to become a monster, that is.
After much exercise, Andulan retracted her vines,
Those fields of green vanished into the dirt like frightened voles,
Fearing the sight of hawks above,
Next she turned her gaze towards the three musicians huddled together.