A man sits, quiet and still,
For soon he shall have quite the thrill,
To the tavern the man heads west,
Says a prayer, his hands to chest.
In a cloak of shadows soon engulfed,
Grips his dagger, holds it close.
For out Bamboo, the drunkard stumbles,
His shaking body, mouth that mumbles.
In the distance our hero waits,
A sack of coins, lies as bait.
The man who's eyes can barely see,
But a glint of gold under tree.
At the foot, the drunkard stops,
while still our hero keeps his watch,
The man sits down in the grass,
In that moment, dagger slash.
Crimson fluid starts to flow,
Our hero's face begins to glow.
For what could bring such joy in life,
Than killing on a moon-kissed night?