I love my darling brother, isn't he so handsome :D

All my life I have had one sole purpose, to guard the money wagon and it’s tariff collector. I was the esteemed bodyguard of this most revered wagon. Oh how I fondly reminiscence caressing the sweet, sultry eyed wagon, jamming my genitalia into its wooden exterior, as the tariff collector coerced the local populace into relinquishing a steady hold upon their shinies. How I nostalgically recall the sword that Skrymir himself gifted to me, a sword that was radiant in the light. But alas, it is all gone, swept away off a mountain peak, as a result of the BLACK DESTROYERS greed. Losing that wagon seemed significant at the time, but now I realise my greater purpose, I will be a custodian of boxes throughout the realm, the watchful eye to ensure that all extravagantly clad wagons are able to repel an insidious BLACK DESTROYER incursion. Praise Sigmar and Rolaf.

This ain't just any Ginger Beer, this is Kirks 'Olde Stoney'. Just so you know, this one is uniquely marked with Olde Stoney's upside down face on the label. Only then will you know that you have the right one. So raise a mug of Kirks Olde Stoney Ginger Beer.

Oh raise a glass of mirth and cheer, as we gulp down our glass of Stoney Beer. How the youth watch, wide eyed from the local undergrowth, licking their chops as they fantasy of tasting a delectable drop of Old Stoney's beer.

Wake, ye men from Picardy and men from Burgundy!
And find yourselves some good clubs,
For here comes the spring and the season, too,
When we'll go to war, some good blows for to give.
Some talk about war, not knowing what it is;
I can tell, my soul, it's a pitiful thing
And many a man-at-arm and many a gentle companion
Lost life, and dress and hood in it.
Where's this duke of Austria? He's in the Netherlands
He is in the low Flanders with his Picards
Night and day, they beg him to lead them
In High Burgundy to conquer it for him.
hen in Burgundy we are, and in the Free County,
It will be time to make a feast, anyway,
We'll chase the King of France out of these hills
And fill our bellies with wine of our barrels.
Farewell, Salins, Salins and Besançon
And you, city of Beaune where the good wines are.
The Picards drank them, the Flemish will pay them:
Four pastars a pint, or beaten they will be.