Boom, boom, boom, boom
Chipping away at the storm of grey
Fireball scorched chanting mountain skin
Rumbling, fiery not fury, not my kin
Chanting MAYDAY, MAYDAY
Shackles shaking shedding cold keys
Now I carry a query…
How well does a bearer of the axe fare?
Chopping up burdens on her wings
With a wee seven hundred years fed to this mere axe
Yet alas, Light must stay chipper.