Bridgestone Valley's festival

Verdant garden of Eden,
Filled with festive fruits.

Skies of tainted red,
Filled with festive flesh.

Thus painted the evening sun,
Over our valley.

Raucous flames of lust,
Their heinous crimes knew no dusk,
Barred from them were none.


Scattered all over were the day's rum,
Tipsy on their steps they run amok,
Beating their wins with slight smoke.


Bards had sung their tales,
Listened to them were the ones alive,
Laughed the others to their past lives.