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Poetry & Verse

Hark! For if ye open your ears, ye might get some of the sweet poem-music of the Fisherians in them.

Romeorc & Julielf

By Johnny Fisher

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Romeorc:

Fair Elfin maid! pray talk wi' me awhiles,
For a stolen glance at thine marv'lous face
Leads my wretched heart to strange a-doings.
Within its ribby cage it beats the walls,
An inmate, a curse'd glance-robber jail'd.
Free to see the beauty of thine pale neck
And thine lightly freckl'd ears 'ponst silken lobes
Is that villain's one wish; 'ponst the gallows,
No other desire would his mouth express.

The furnace o' my heart has raged o'er-much
O' late; the soul-coals stacked and keen to flame
Shovel'd wi' ebullience to their fire'y grave
By some maniac who knows not fatigue
Nor temp'rance. A lunatic shove'ling hard,
Plund'ring the coal pile with hell-forged rigour.
My pores erupt forth like sweat volcanoes!
Launching liquid longing o'er fields and brooks
Coating my nest in a film of reeking lust.

I, vet'ran orc from deep-delved bauxite mines,
Roughly hewn, quick to rage and scimitar'd,
One thousand elves have I sent to the Grave.
Thee, comely elf lass, lovely hair in braids,
Ye'd pure flee, faced wi' my rapin' kin-folk.
Gentler than a billion suckling lambs,
Comely face at peace, glitt'ring eyes at rest.
Like an ocean still, thine winsome cheeks, and
A quiet heath'ry hill, thine muted brow.

My forked tongue ponders long on thy beauty,
Inconclusive mutt'rings keep the face awake
And wouldst drive the very 'brows off my face.
Endure would I the scorn of mine brethren
For my ridiculous baldy eye-shades.
No place at the High Feast wouldst I attain,
No tender manburgers for me or mine.
Left to starve in deadly ignominy.
But for ye, all such I gladly endure.

Julielf:

Thou be not fair, wielder of sickly green-skin,
Handler of a mucky face,
Steward of a horrid soul,
Viscount of poison fangs.
In height thou art but an elf-child,
A youngling of a thousand summers,
Yet one with serious biceps and a
Shocking lust for blood.
Rusty be thine scimitar.

Yet my heart yearns for thee still.
No reason or logic wilst it obey.
It beholds not an ugly monster, nor
A muscly abomination.
But a charming prince from 'neath the ground
With silver tongue and massive guns.
Thou might wield a mace of seduction
As skilfully as thine scimitar.
Rusty though it be.

Goth Rock

By M. Dangermond

...................................

At ze Battle of Adrianople
Ve kicked their oily heads in
Did zey ever have a hope-le?
Not against us und our glorious kin!

Dwarven Pride

By Johnny Fisher

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Part I: The Awakening

The Dwarves awoke on Annizar
Many moons ago.
The leader of the Beardlings
Brought his folk to Zargano.
There they forged, and deeply delved,
They flattened hills, they put up shelves.
A city there began to spread,
The Elves the city filled with dread.
Its bearded shadows made them dead.

And the greatest stone-wrought city
That the world hath e'er seen,
Grew above fair gardens
Sowed with grass and runner-bean.
Great gates there were, and ramparts
High above the mountain's spur.
Looking down from 'ponst the ramparts
Things below were all a-blur.
Things below were all a-blur?
Truly, things below were blurred.

Part II: War!

Upon a time an Elf named Alf
Came upon the Dwarves' abode.
And though the Elfman sued for peace,
A giant war-like steed he rode.

His head retired upon a stake,
Above the gate, beneath the skies.
Food for crows; and food for thought.
The Dwarves they do not suffer lies.

Our mighty axes, Elvin-feared,
Our braided beards we ne'er sheared,
Our warriors the women cheered,
And off we went to war.

"Off to war!" the Beardlings cried.
O'er many battles, millions died.
To Elvish heads our axes plied,
With hooks we tore their faces.

Many Dwarvish brethren fell,
Perish'd in that fury'd hell.
Beards torn off with chins and skin,
Eyes were gouged out, heads caved in.

Guts removed and legs chopped up,
On the fallen Goblins supped;
Feasted on their hamstrings
And things too gruesome to tell.

The war was brutal,
Is war futile?
No, say we
For we are Dwarves.
We love war!
And death and pain
The thrill of slicing
Some bloke's brain.
The ecstasy in
bleeding, feeding
On the feast of war

Part III: Of Dwarven Pride

Work stone, hew bone,
Then head off home
"Dinner time!" the dwarves decree.
Good mead, we need,
We feed on seed,
And meat and rib of cow and steed.

Pass the stein on down the line
Rest the cup against thine chops,
Imbibe the heady Dwarven brew
Taste the magic golden hops!
Drink again! Chug it deep!
A Dwarven drinker ne'er quails.
Who needs rest? Who seeks sleep?
The bearded Dwarves are bloody Nails.

Fight and wrestle, Dwarven mirth!
Test your strength against a pal.
Drink until thy loins erupt,
Then retire upon your gal.
Slay her on a bed of hay,
Beards entangled, sweaty flanks.
Dwarven love is rough and fast,
Like a fleshy dragon assault.

'Pon the morn into the smithy
Hammer axes sharp as poss.
Chopping wood to hone the 'ceps.
Horseshoes for the young to toss.
Fire and anger! Dwarven pride!
Muscles glist'ning fire-side!
Off to battle, forth to war.
The Dwarves will prosper evermore.

Dwarves!
Dwarves!
Ak-Anazar! Ak-Anazar!
To war!
TO WAR!
Carving lumps out of the Elves.

Dwarves!
Dwarves!
Azag-Anur! Azag-Anur!
To war!
TO WAR!
Death to those who do not delve.