by Nick Gisburne
He mounts the monster, chaos his intent
All thoughts of grace and mercy clearly lost
The town dismisses all the sweat he spent
For this there comes a catastrophic cost
Such peasants are a pest he will destroy
The venom of vendetta thrills the skin
They call his creature nothing but a toy
But now the wheels of vengeance start to spin
Their mockery, dismissing his success
Adds flavour to the wine of their defeat
His bold creation, crafted with finesse
Will burn them into sticks of smoking meat
The clockwork dragon, symbol of his fame
Collapses in a hopeless heap of flame
