The Lost Maiden

 Once in a foreign land in an old house, sat a man and a maiden spouse.

The maiden was weeping, and she cried very temperate, wait no not temperate, slow.

Soon I saw the cut on the man, and I saw the red blood starting to flow.

His mouth moved but he did not talk, and his tongue moved, like a ventriloquist.

But what was even more sorrowful was the sweet, kind, and smooth way he moved his lips.

The sorrowful maiden got up, and I stepped out of the way as if I wasn't there, and as she passed by I saw an assortment of tears.

For that lost maiden who is alone in the snow, poor maiden longing for help.

And deep in the forest, you can hear her sorrowful yelp.

Oh, I pity the lost and poor maiden who longs for Artemis, who hunts more than an average boar.

But she also wishes, she could be a maiden forever more.