O walls you speak with tongue-in-cheek,
thy ramblings are for naught.
Before my soul grows dead and cold,
you'll feel the wrath I wrought.

Mine kin they weep, ne'er yours to keep,
while light of time grows dim.
It shall be told in print of bold,
tis nothing but a whim.

Thou thinks me weak, a rash critique,
I'll not be played the clown.
Let it be written, I am not smitten,
my best can bring thee down.

This land will bloom, above thy gloom,
in final protocol.
At judgement day you'll have no say,
when He rules Haggard's Halls.