Upon the Moorland’s misty sprawl.
We few skirmishers did rise - to hear battle’s call.

O WarlordBeetleBen - thy name resounds.
In every clash - where courage knows no bounds.
Together stood we - brethren forged by strife.
Each swing of blade a hymn - to fleeting life.
The moor did drink - sweat, and crimson hue.
Yet bonds made together did bloom as morning dew.

Now memory’s glow doth gild our toil of yore.
As Moorland whispers tales of days before.

Hail, WarlordBeetleBen!
Thy spirit e’er shall be!
A torn-banner bright o’er realms of memory!

Great paths are ahead under each step. May this year bring no stone too hard to scale. All the best and moor ahead for you n' yours Sir WarlordBeetleBen.

blood and iron.

Lick me

Men of letters are useful, and should ever be cherished, as they do honour to their country.

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