Like a rock without moss I always roll,
To the corners of our country to follow work.
My hands are as soft as a child's virgin ass,
But my soul is as tough as a hammered mast.
My hands come alive when holding pen,
Your shin starts to perspire as I pound ink in.
Your butterfly dances on wings of skin,
A portrait of your daughter tells where she began.
What magic will I give you as we start to dance,
Could it be for strength or something Rance.
A name, a flower, or something dark,
All you have to do is tell me where to start.
My craft is not of taking souls,
Its really the art of making holes.
So ask me what you will, and please be polite,
You don’t want me mad when you feel my bite.