In Greyford wood when shadows play
There flies a fowl of feathered blue,
With wit as sharp as break of day,
And eyes that see the lies in you.
He flits from branch to root to air,
A thief of hats, a plague to peace.
He caws and shrieks with devilish flair,
Then vanish as your coins decrease.
Beware The Mocker and his wiles,
He paints the trees to lead astray,
He turns about to steal your way,
While hiding all your tears in smiles.
He’ll burn your bread and steal your fill,
And spoil your meal with sly design,
Then watch you trudge two days behind,
And mock you from the silent hill.
When first the Nahri came herein,
They wandered through both fern and thorn.
The trees would twist, the roots would spin,
And every track was lost or torn.
The king of Nahar raised his bow—
The Mocker sang upon a stone.
The arrow felled the cheeky foe,
Who granted then the forest throne.
"A wish," he croaked, "is now your right,
For none have pierced my mocking wing."
The king knelt low in firelight—
"Then let us fade from hunter's sting."
The Mocker stirred, his feathers bled,
He wove a veil through bark and bough,
And ever since, the forest spread
To hide the Nahri then and now.
But heed this tale when branches creak—
The Mocker still is full of jest.
He’ll squawk and bite and steal your squeak,
And lead you far from where you rest.
Beware The Mocker, little one,
Who tugs your cloaks and trips your feet,
He hides your bread and sours your meat.
Then laughs beneath the rising sun,
Yet deep within his beating breast,
There dwells a note of something clear,
A hidden oath that grants him rest,
When stars above the pines appear.
