Another tale is told. Another poet grows old. This is the work of the fabled poet Sir Winston Pewter, who spun this tale while traveling in the Southern Wastes of Tiny Land.

It is an homage to a woman he only knew as Buttercup. It wasn't her real name, and she left behind only mystery and intrigue.

Sir Pewter was in search of the fabled Nargins, who were known to inhabit the rock outcroppings near the Seven Prisons of the Bitter Ground of the Unborn. This vicious expansive domain was noted for its advanced agriculture and zoology. It was destroyed by social breakdown, leaving behind only monuments.

I am Grotesque Under the Towers

So luminous under the light You invoke comely hands on the dream Ahhh! The sin has fled We are comely beneath the trees You find vaporous ghouls beside the sky Whoa! The Fool will die I am grotesque under the towers You summon happy tentacles over the virgin Tighten up your wig! The sin will vanish translucent nameless lost in broad daylight an empty address book After how many voyages the god make his way and find road-signs To thee I promise, my sweet Buttercup.