The Bringer of Death, woe begone!
the Master Grim must die,
he ruled from his throne in the East,
a place hard to come by.
The remarkable village swore,
that the Valley is theirs,
they blessed three youths a mighty quest,
to trounce who no one dares.
Thence came Winter with icy spears,
and bequeathed the land,
to frost, sleet and snow, to devour,
their barren final stand.
What would destroy the immortal?
perplexed, they asked their own,
an axe or arrow or poison,
tragedy of unknown.
They arrived at the Gates of Hell,
with devious plan in mind,
only Death could take him indeed,
he wasn’t hard to find.
Death dwelled in the palace wearing,
he appeared before the three youths,
with his birds of grackles.
Death would take the Master away,
if they melted his chains,
a feat accomplished by their souls,
only the pure remains.
They could vanquish the dark ruler,
Now were their souls worthy?
they released Death from his restraints,
Now were they unworthy?
The Valley of the East was theirs,
See merry joy abound,
three stars of brave celebrated,
only heroes around.