The Frosted Fall of Winter's Tyrant

In frigid realms where mortal flesh doth quake,

Bold Graham stands, a pastry shield in hand,

The abominable beast of mountain make

Looms vast before him in the snow-swept land.

What valor drives this king to such strange arms?

A custard pie, sweet weapon of his quest,

Now hurled with might across the chilling charms

Of Serenia's peaks, to strike the yeti's crest.

The creamy missile finds its destined mark,

And thus doth Man o'er monstrous Nature triumph dark.