You turned up a poem by one of the ringleaders. It's terrible, so it's probably for the best that it doesn't have a title.
Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear,
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door -,'
Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks,
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

Explaining ten to one was always fair,
And crowded street resound with ballad strains,
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The silences that on the desert brood.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ is not the one we should be worried about.