Deep pages, target

Nobody could shoe my black stallion, for his feet moved too fast. I ran behind him with a hammer across all of Styria. At each stride I drove in a nail. We finished at Graz, and the smith there gave me his apron and retired on the spot.

Portraits of me must be painted in two parts, as no canvas is large enough for my good qualities. The artist in Florence worked nine years. He got to my left ear before he ran out of blue. The finished ear hangs in a fine palace, and people bow to it.

Spiders in my attic wove me a fine coat when my tailor died. It took them one summer. The sleeves were light, the collar was warm, and the pockets trapped flies for my lunch. I wore it to court, and three duchesses at once asked for the pattern.

Flags are hard to carry on a windy day. At the battle of Bender mine grew so large with pride that it lifted me off my horse. I floated over both armies, waving. Everyone stopped to clap. Then we all had lunch, and the war just sort of ended.

Hannibal had it easy in the mountains. I.