Sam, My Son...
Parting words from the Gaffer
Well my son I'm no rich man,
In all these years I've earned a tan.
Content to potter round my plants,
And dream about pink Oliphants.
But I fear you'll join some quest
So I'll give you of my best
Ancient weapon, mind my grammer
Called the dreaded Ninny Hammer
Wield it bravely, make me proud
Come home safe, to my nineth cloud