Thus, Filbus strung his mighty bow – cold oak
Formed it's wicked curves – Ten Longfoot Feet
The bowshaft spanned. It curved and twisted
like the ebony horn of Trakanon.
Filbus drew and knocked a soggy arrow
The heavens sang out, immaculate chorus
From hill to hill, the arrow whistled
Flashing like a diving eagle afront the son
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The arrow struck home and the Cyclops writhed
It roared and waxed its breath like a bellows.
But 'twas no more than a nagging splinter
the Cyclops charged the heroic halfling!
Fret not, most intrepid reader of adventure.
Filbus, though forgotten by his Blood God
Had not forgotten his sword, the Blood God
And he delicately painted the sands red.
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