Ode to the Lights

to the tune of Ode to Joy

Archers make ignoble foeman,
Shoot at you and run away.
Goddamned mother [-]king bowmen,
They’re the ones I love to slay.

Hunt them, chase them, catch them and mace them.
Mash them and spread them like pate.
God put archers here to bug me
How I wish they’d go away.