Dagger ready, bottle in hand

soft shoes upon the hot sand,

poisoned blade shines in the light,

a green ichor to sap his might.

Steps upon the cobblestone,

soundless beneath the crowd’s dull drone.

Political, revenge, or hate i care not,

there’s gold to be had, and death to be bought

Thatched roof, or stone-walled castle,

not a single trick, trap or hastle.

Slow, I’m not, but soon ye shall be,

This dagger of mine ye ne’er shall see.

I ride away on a stolen saddle,

my target, the victim of the shadow.