Richard tore into his violin, slicing the poor thing,
He'd saw right through it if it meant he could save his friends,
Albert strummed his harp, staining it with blood as he cut his fingers,
Christopher breathed in rapidly, filling his flute with constant air,
Their performance reached the gates of castle Sanguinair, lending music,
To those without the means to pay...
Rick acted without hope, knew his arrows wouldn't work,
Played his notes without an audience to hear them,
Each was absorbed into a tangled mass of vines, caught, twisted and snapped,
In that order each time.
Lead by roaring John, Kevin and Paul pressed on,
Into the swallowing green jungle ahead of them.