The deciever's heart is unquiet,
But does not kettle-pound,
All the better to raise a riot,
On hostels idyllic crowned.
Smiles glint as blades of bone.
In time, distrusting keen can wring,
What manor brand is to be thrown,
And what fief the act shall bring.
Despite favor of the monarch,
Theirs is a life lived to the small,
To whom the fabric of outer dark,
Is cast in eternal pall.
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