An undead shinobi am I,
Searching the past for the lord of dragons
Who I serve faithfully through death.
No dog of war or shrieking spearman will stop me,
Although giant crickets and man-eating goldfish harrow my steps.

Into the past, I step a silent shadow,
Until I mistakingly stumble into a pile of yard waste
Alerting the bastard yokai roosters who roost everywhere.
The skies I walk as silently as the clouds,
From rooftop to rooftop, surefooted and graceful,
Until I overshoot and plummet down a cliff that defies Nippon geography.

Through burning palace, I march, undaunted in my steps.
I approach from behind all my quarry, I slaughter without remorse.
Some would call this cowardly, yet they are cowards themselves.
I will use all tools at my disposal, including luring a raging drunkard 
toward an old samurai to have him take the brunt of the blows.

Weary, I approach the butterfly.
Old women should not be able to move such as she.
I face her again and again as she dances in the air and skewers with long needles.
Endurance is a thing of the past, so I spin, and leap, and spin.
A whirling pinwheel of death, over and over, a tumbling blade.
She falls to my endless onslaught of a single repeated move.
All techniques are fair game for the shinobi.

I claim my prize.