Who am I in the mind of a critic?
Nothing but a tryhard and a decrepit.
What do I look like in the eyes of a doubter?
A small and rotten, wilting flower.
Who do I resemble in the archive of the shirker?
A fallen dwarf embargoed to eternal slumber.
While he's busy slurping straight from his flagon,
I flapped my wings, no longer the sleeping dragon.