Drexler approached his dusty old milk crate, kicks the bastard the right way up and sits upon it sighing to himself. Life was bringing him down, shit was kicking off left, right, and center. Good friends of his were finding themselves with cement shoes, some thankfully surviving attempted hits, and others being blamed and accused by crazy tin-headed conspiracy theorists. All in all it was bringing him down. One thing that always calmed this man was a well thought out poem; so he decided to have his hand at writing one.

He sat and thought a while, flipping a coin as he counted in his head to 303, words began to flow, he felt he was getting close. He jotted down some cracking ideas, scribbling bits out here and there until a masterpiece was a formed. He re-wrote his final draft and gave it a kiss followed by a "voila".

He sealed it with the finest wax and a custom emblem showing a big D, everyone loves the D right? He wrote the address on it perfect and waited for news to return from his delivery boy, "It's done sir, I gave the letter to one of Cantillon's guards I am sure he will have read it soon enough" he informs. Drexler quietly recites the poem to himself one last time as he wanders back to his HQ.

"Roses are Red, Violets are Blue. I've got a Knife, Get in the Van"