A humble scribe's echo from far Singtel's soil,
Speaks of a tale that did make the blood boil.
Paid they silver for turmoil, yet firm like winter's hoar
Sees no ground for a greater deer to spoil.

Like hares in spring, to the squire they made their plea,
Brewing up a storm, 'twas not just for a cup of tea.
On strike they went, their labor's worth to see,
Their call to the round table, a chorus from the sea.

Unto the knight, a lamb led by a goat,
A parchment of secrets, in shadows did float.
A voice told a tale, 'twas not of spite nor gloat,
Yet not a cage built, just a scribbled note.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur