Here lie the bones of the RiverTalker,
An old oak of a man, he was,
He would write old tales,
some whoppers, some whales,
The reason? Well - just because!
He penned his words in misty air,
To give them that feel of the moor,
He wrote mysteries so fine,
and poems divine,
Of the nature of souls that are poor.
He kept writing of crimes, all the days of his life,
Until that day when he finally died,
With his keyboard afire,
On his funeral pyre,
And all of Protagonize cried.