"MiX doth speaketh truth, he claimeth to me,
Upon our first meet, Survivor he be,
Know not what he does, beyond what he said,
Though trust him, I do, his name is not Red.
Town doth share his goal, he’ll scumhunt for you,
Hunting scum is thy wish? ‘Tis his wish too,
But if killing me, is his strong’st desire,
Then let’s all throw him into the fire.
A withering glare shot out from the little man with the lyre.
Second point of truth, Survivor I be,
With Town-ish features, as you will soon see,
I wish that you all, would allow my life,
To let me Survive, in this time of strife.
Here I come, to address our Sir Dylan,
Whose words, misconstrued, paint me a villain,
He speaketh truth, I can speaketh to all,
Misheard me, he did, misheard through my drawl.
‘Full claim to me, and my win-con is yours’
Was the statement made, (to Dylan, of course),
Meaning an exchange would learn him my win,
He tellest me his, and mine goes to him.
My win-con is stable, solid and pure,
It cannot be shift’d, of this I am sure,
While I am no Knight, (I am but a fool),
I still can be used, and serve as a tool."