What monsters lurk in shadows, Forever veiled in black? What mischief, pain or sorrow, They seek to play or act? Yet escape is not the answer, To fend of the unavoidable fear. For some songs as vile as cancer, Land deceptively sweet on the ear. Nar Shadda, cesspool of scum, hive of villany, den of the wretched, home of some of the best wool in the Galaxy. Supposedly, a dozen wookiees died for a single yard. So illegal, so fine in quality, and naturally, a requirement for a knitting aficionado, especially for one catering to those of odd tastes.