Now Thistle was a merry lad,
his face was round and plain.
His placid smile did well belie,
the four score he had slain.
Rounded arms and pudgy fat
hid a strong a supple frame.
Simple folk had birthed him,
but cryptic he became.
In the keep his secret life
was known to just a few.
These stood in wary awe of 'him'
most, thought, they liked and knew.
In both his lives he served the king
doled out his praise and his rebuke.
Right hand, did, yield a nasty blade,
left strummed his minstrel's lute.
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