Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a Templar was stirring, not even a mouse.
Their stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Rodrigo would soon be there.
The stronzos were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of oppression dancing in…
Simply magnifico, maestro! You are indeed quiet the poet!
-giggles- Perhaps you should try writing with Machiavelli sometime!