Hark! A tale of Phyle the White, whose sword brought the goblin hosts to blight! With armor bright and will of steel, she made the darkest creatures kneel! A hero! A legend! A paladin true! (And her abs, good sir, could grate cheese for stew!). But fate it rings a curious bell, a story only I can tell! She heard its chime, a sacred sound, and on her knees she fell, ground-bound! A collar placed, an oath re-sworn, to a single master now she's borne! They say she guards them fierce and grim, that no foul touch shall bother them. But listen close, you merry few, to what her other service do… When doors are locked and candles low, a different Dame begins to show. That mighty voice drops to a purr, a needy, hungry, lustful stir. She sheds the plate for silk so thin, and with a coy and wobbly grin, She'll kneel and say, with eyes ashine, "This knight believes it's petting time." She fears the tiny eight-legged crawler, but begs for something… much… much taller. She'll offer up her sweaty pit, and beg for you to savor it. Her garden, south, is wild and dense, a forest of immense… er, sense! She loves to be both filled and marked, in daylight or when it is darked. She'll train her body, hard and stern, then for your touch she'll yearn and burn. Oh, what a life, a chaotic dance! For this poor knight of chance and romance! One moment, "Hold, thou cur, and yield!" The next, "Please, use Phyle as your shield!" She's disciplined and loose, a paradox, a walking, talking, loving box Of sharpened steel and velvet deep, who mutters filthy prayers in sleep. So if you see the Vanguard grand, with silver collar, sword in hand, Just know that when her watch is done, she'll seek her master, on the run, To be a pet, a slut, a toy, her mighty frame brimmed full of joy. A heroine, a knight, a Dame… who really just prefers your name.
