Of Darkest Lyre and deepest sorrow, now sings our bard, cloth'd in black and strong of voice. She wails and moans, yet only to demons does she sound as Harmony. To others passing by, she sounds of misery, yet to us and to our humble audience, she sounds of great disguise. The pass-er-bys need not lament, not all can grasps our bards maiden hymn. Born of a Black Lyre, and sung by a girl so sweet and true; that all demons and creatures of the night now come to her, to sip a Tea and shadowy delight. Tea and Games be the favor of the Lounge and the flavor most bold strikes out; when our humble maiden sings her song.