Lyrical leftovers

dontragutvoch5

Did I say that was the LAST dose of reader-prompted poetry-month-honoring EPIC VERSE you were getting treated to? WELL GUESS WHAT, MOTHERFUCKERS, I just took a cursory look at my handy desk calendar, the one where I would note down everybody’s birthday if I actually gave half a fuck, and THE MONTH ISN’T OVER YET. So even though it’s too damn late for you lazy scrubs to send in a poem of your own for the INTERNET FAME AND RECOGNITION YOU DON’T EVEN REMOTELY DESERVE BUT ARE GOING TO WIND UP GETTING ANYWAY BECAUSE THANKS GARROSH, there’s still time to grab one more of these submissions from the pile and treat you to one more of dose of awesome.

Because I’m a giver. And because I underpromise and overdeliver. And also because I’m still stuck on this damn boat heading down to Pandaria and if I don’t find something vaguely productive to do then it’s just a matter of time before SOMEONE on this boat starts to look irresistibly breakable.

So, speaking of people I would relish snapping into a couple hundred very tiny pieces (admittedly, this isn’t exactly an exclusive club), today’s reader poem comes from… <sigh>… spirits help us… Dontrag and Utvoch.

So… you know… not too much else for me to say about that. Let’s get this over with.

 

ONE MEAN, TOO MEAN.
We Mean Hellscream

By Sargeant Dontrag
And Grunt Utvoch

One mean, too mean
Garrosh Hellscream.
We mean you’re mean.
Too mean, we scream.

One mean, too mean.
Not share, no fair.
Don’t care anywhere.
Only care lemon square.

One mean, too mean
Slam door, stomp floor.
Settle score once more.
Nevermore Theramore.

One mean, too mean
One joke, two pokes.
Two blokes, slowpokes.
Two strokes, both croaks.

(Not yet, anyway)

One mean, too mean.
Not green, it seem.
You preen, ladies scream.
Umpteen, it’s obscene.

One mean, too mean.
Even seem little teen.
Figurine mean machine.
Femineene Hellscream.

Umm.

One mean, too mean.
Bell cursed, orcs worst.
Wrynn dispersed, left in hearse.
Got a nurse, death reversed.

Uh.

One mean, too mean.
Poor Steve, we grieve.
We leave before peeve.
Eve receive heave cleave.

Bye.

 

So… I suppose… I mean, I don’t even… Yeah. Fine. So there’s that.

It bears noting, by the way? That poem required two people to write.

Meanwhile, returning to the land of the not-stupid who can scrape together a few rhymes without needing to hold a conference, time for me to offer my… response. Which… yeah. I don’t really see this ending well, but here goes.

 

One herp, two derp.
Lunchtime, slurp burp.
No twirp usurp
Kings of herp-derp.

One herp, two derp.
Birdbrain, my bane.
Their brain: shit stain.
My pain? Explain:

One herp, two derp.
See me at sea.
Trainee runs free;
As for me? Can’t flee.

One herp, two derp.
Their insane word chain.
I complain; migrane;
Profane; bloodstain.

One herp, two derp.
Three smacks (four max).
Rage stacks, bone cracks,
My axe cleaves sacks.

One herp, two derp.
Each goon a buffoon.
Both hewn by noon.
Harpoon: death soon.

One herp, two derp.
Abhorred; need sword.
Kick toward Howling Fjord,
Thrown, soared, overboard.

One herp, two derp.
One blast from mast;
Ship fast; they’ve passed,
Distance vast; peace at last.

BYE MOTHERFUCKING BYE, MOTHERFUCKERS.

 

EPIC VERSE!

 

I mean, not that I should ever be surprised when Dumb and Dumber do something idiotic, but they REALLY didn’t think this one through, seeing as they sent me their… their… verbal equivalent of brain cancer, KNOWING full well they were going to be on a ship with me where there would be very few places to hide or run away.

Oh well. At least they get to practice their swimming now. For the entire rest of the trip. STOP YOUR BITCHING, JACKASSES, SWIMMING IS HEALTHY. Especially when the alternative to swimming is being on a boat with someone who’s liable to fucking MURDER you.

So. That wraps up this edition of Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge for real. Thanks and congrats to everyone who contributed, all that stuff, whatever. I’m sure I’ll be throwing down some more EPIC VERSE soon enough just because. Or EPIC TALES of my EPIC LIFE. Or if you-know-who and you-know-who-else decide to try to crawl back on board, maybe EPIC RECAPS of me giving an EPIC BEATING to a couple EPIC PAINS in my EPIC ASS.

Okay, enough of that crap. Time to go up on deck and… I don’t know… be bored looking at the same view of the ocean I’ve been staring at this whole trip. Or listen to the Wonder Twins bickering about how to do a breaststroke. Or both. Ugh.

Water water everywhere, I think I need a drink.

Further tourist destinations
Monday mailbag
 

2 Responses to Lyrical leftovers

  1. Sarlin says:

    Well…you do have to admit, Warchief, it IS slightly catchy. Catchy like the flu, maybe, but catchy, nonetheless.

     

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