across the yard, a shadowed figure slinks
perched high above, a feathered barn owl hoots
beyond the walls drift laughs as glasses clink
to swipe the loot, no better chance will come
amidst the crowd, a dimpled woman nods
inebriated guards are swigging meade
the minstrels sing a tale of lords and Gods
a perfect opportunity for greed
a dark and empty tomb, bespeaks the hall
on woven fabric, torchlit patterns dance
reverberate an echo through the hall
a bout of nerves akin to first romance
oh thrill of fear that still he may be found
within his throat, the sweet, familiar pound
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