I rise slowly to my feet, the creaking of my old joints obvious.
Danke, Fair maiden, for the invitation to the warm fire, it does my old bones good; and you, Rhymer, not too bad, at that. but I find this one, of my own making, more fitting the folk here, in the Tavern...

"Hail to the mighty warrior, as off to war he goes...
Little does he realize the valor of his foes...
Nor does he fret but little, of the ones he's left behind...
Not truer friends, nor better ones, does a warrior ever find...
And yet, to give him credit, he is not in perfect bliss...
For in his farewell memories, there lingers one sweet kiss...
A parting with the one he loved, yet never knew the words...
To tell his love, and thus? His love never once was heard.

His feelings deep; disturb his sleep; he deeply wished he'd said...
Some expression of this affection, so he would not have this dejection!

For... He realized: tomorrow; he'd be dead."