Our ever-blessed Lord and Countess know
What’s best for us, mere average jane and joe.
The deific foresight only they possess,
By goad or rod we’re often taught we’re less.
The Lord abhors that foe (whom we not met);
With sulfur eyes to battle prompt we’re set.
From Wargs, The Countess bellows, she’s our shield;
Aghast, our basic rights to her we yield.
All sinful skeptics swiftly shall we shun;
To terror orcs, we’re told, they give new gun.
Our Nobles steer the ship, we paddle blind;
They ruled we should not irk our simple mind.
But why we toil, yet still our bellies cry,
While they on gilded bedding gorge and lie?