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.