Duir, King of Trees:
So Duir's muse is off with the flu,
What's a lad supposed to do?
His head held high and chin out proud,
When he returns we shall be wowed.
This brave warrior wears no mask,
The glorious sun his spirit doth bask.
I plead to his muse to return to him,
For this loving poet has committed no sin.
Our ears drip with blood until his return,
Our poetry thirst continues to burn.
My hollow words cannot compete,
To poet Duir, I take a backseat.
This simple poem I offer to you,
And hope in some way it pulls you through.
Alas my friend take hold of your pen,
For ink it shall spill again and again.
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