• There in the shores of the peninsula of the south
    A ship lain on its side from a vicious turn-about
    It was from a tempest, that which no bard could foretell
    Squalls roared with fury and the water swelled
    It was as if the anger of the Queens became corporeal
    The carnage upon the ship was dubbed surreal
    For all aboard had died, save for the one standing on the bay
    He was the toughest of all, known as The Hero of Grey:
    Most humble servant to a king in a land far to the west
    It was with Providence that his life was blessed
    His hair was short, wisps of silver swayed in the wind,
    Yet he was young, forged with a will that none could bend
    He looked homeward, towards the Kingdom of Grey
    It was difficult for his eyes to look away
    But away they looked and the steel-blues turned towards the north
    He saw a road and was inclined to sojourn forth
    A brief pause was took every now and then
    To take the peculiar surroundings in
    He understood naught of the lands geography
    or why the shore was without cacophony
    Still were the skies, no birdsong could be head
    No animal companion to hear a spoken word
    So, he walked simply, breathing in the grotesque scene
    Until too hefty of a breath caused a distortion of his mien
    It was a stench: foul, flowery, and pungent
    He was drawn towards the scent, and thus, took a course aberrant
    It was near a bushel, but lo, it did not hide light
    Concealed within was a man, asleep, as in a septic blight
    His garments were jovial, sanguine, yet tattered;
    His frivolous frame was worn, beaten, and battered
    Bedight he was in a hat, of lavish royal and violet
    Matched by a swallow-tail; imprinted most violent
    All by wounds and dirt in which he was wallowed
    'Twas as if all of his pride, by greed, was swallowed
    Our Hero stood perplexed at this sight so queer
    For this scrawny young man was not anything to fear
    He looked quite weak; his filigree'd clothes did not deserve the beating
    But, our poor Hero was never told of the greeting
    Of awakening the sleeping man. Then he stirred
    But from what sound, our Hero couldn't've heard
    This man's eyes were encaséd in the darkness of the tired
    Such circles left his visage much unadmired
    When he had awoken, he couldn't tell where he was
    This put him in deep thought and gave our Hero time to pause
    Finally the silence was broke with these words anon:

    Who are you, kindest sir, and why do you lie here all upon
    Murky sods and pressed grass, all the while you are farthest away
    From any lodging, village, or town that inclines most to stay
    In the comfort of the hearth and the peace of their own abode
    Why do you lie down here in this shameful and most meager mode?

    The stranger sat down with a straight back
    And with a slur to his tongue, he answered back:

    I have no home, sir, nowhere to go to
    All my money is spent and my life is practically through
    Nothing keeps me living, sans revenge
    All I do is wait for my body to, by fire of Hell, be singed

    The hero stood still staring at the man in repose
    Yet he seemed vexed by his suffering and woes
    Why should one young man even suffer thus?
    The Grey Hero sought out to find the cause most unjust:

    Who are you, young man, and tell me your sad and most dreadful tale?

    The man sat, ready and poised for a swift regale:

    My story is one that is both sappy and elegiac
    Mayhap it is a bit melancholic, archetypal, and archaic
    So, if you want to hear my tale, then fine
    Prepare to be entreated with a most pathos-ridden rhyme