In a somber frosted night, dwelt a naive and geriatric knight.

He sold typewriters and a bag of seeds,

ever so few, now and then, to all those in need.

No one heeded the pages he sent burning.

To sell more was his only yearning.

From a friendly river to a neighbouring stream.

He wished to put locks in a key.

He trudged with the weight around.

Never had he felt more proud.

Conjuring robots that made him bleed.

So rare was the platelets he sheathed.

By the clicks and clacks of a machine.

The sum of his fingers latched to his feet.

He sold typewriters and a bag of seeds.