A poem to Aster

[Vlaid]

It might appear a few slight errors in the writing and a bit of wine staining the parchment...

Tribute
By: Valen Volandis

I stumble in through the door
Late for a contest I could not ignore
My words were slurred, my feet unsteady
Palms sweaty but spirit ready

The crowd waited, disdainful stares
But Velan Volandis had no cares
I raised my glass and began to speak
A quiver, a shake, the fans their knees now weak

But this is not the poem I heard
I could not recall it
Not even a single word

This is not the poem I read that day
A mere tribute I give before I must away
I must now quickly bow and depart
Or else my final gift
A quiet squeak, a sickly, wine-drunk fart

Dar Aster,

My artistry can not be rushed and so I deliver to you my masterpiece, freshly written over a glass of wine before I pass out this evening. You need not apologize for announcing the winner early.

I am sure you are wracked with guilt over how to proceed, knowing that I have vanquished all others with the ease of my lyrical wit. Simply retroactively declare me the winner, retrieve the dinar from the other and I suppose donate it to the local brothel in my name.

Sincerely,

Velan Volandis