Tag Archives: epic verse
The Tuskarr and the Mortimer
So here it is – the final installment of Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge! Thanks to everyone who participated, whether by giving suggestions for poems, or just coming by to read the latest submissions. And so, without further ado…
The sun was shining on the sea
Beneath the Borean sky;
The waves were waving to and fro,
The crests were cresting high.
And that it was a glorious day
No creature could deny.
To Warsong Hold a zeppelin
Brought Garrosh with his bunch.
He’d come to visit D.E.H.T.A.’s camp
And have a little lunch.
And this was strange, since most of them
He would much rather punch.
But he had come to humor them
And show a little class;
He figured this way it might keep
Lather-on-us off his ass.
So he’d choke down a salad
And, with luck, would not get gas.
So as the Warchief wandered off
To find the D.E.H.T.A base,
He left his wyvern free to fly
And soar at his own pace,
Since frankly it was just as well
He stay clear of that place.
So Mortimer went flying ’round
Exploring as he may,
And came upon a Kalu’ak
Outside of Unu’pe.
The Tuskarr greeted him and said,
“Hail, wyvern! Frabjous day!”
The wyvern landed near; the Tuskarr
Said, “Now let us see –
I feel that in my travels
I could use some company.
So, wyvern, let me ask you,
Would you like to come with me?”
The friendly Mortimer just gave
A nod and then a bark;
He figured that he might as well
Go with him as a lark.
And so away from Unu’pe
The pair did disembark.
The Tuskarr and the Mortimer
Went strolling in a rank,
Across the Geyser Fields and past
Airstrip of Fizzlecrank
(Where Mortimer left for the gnomes
Some droppings as a prank).
Along the northern coast they found
A village, and therein,
A mob of mumbling Murlocs
From the tribe of Winterfin.
The Tuskarr said, “Aha! And so
Our fun can now begin!”
“Hail, Murlocs!” said the Tuskarr
As the Murloc ranks increased.
“Good day!” he said; they gathered
As the village was policed.
“And since we’re friends, good Murlocs,
We’ll make you a quite fine feast!”
The unsuspecting Murlocs beamed.
“Tell me, have you a pot?”
And at the Tuskarr’s question
A great cauldron out was brought.
The Tuskarr set his pack down
And said, “Now, what have I got?”
The Tuskarr opened up his pack
And set aside his hat.
He started to unpack some herbs,
Vegetables, bacon fat.
“Now while the water boils,
Murlocs, let’s have a little chat.”
So Mortimer just sat nearby –
A curious scene, he thought.
The Tuskarr sliced some carrots
And tossed them into the pot.
Some onions, too, and celery,
While all of it grew hot.
“The time has come,” the Tuskarr said,
“To talk of many things:
Of pigs—of guns—of crab fishwives—
Of eggmen and Lich Kings,
Of countless Kael’thas setbacks,
And of why fey dragons sing.”
“Grr-blrrrrgll-grarrrrlllllb,” the Murlocs said;
The Tuskarr said, “Indeed!
Another fine point, Murlocs,
Oh, that I will concede.”
“Brrrr-blarrrrrbgggll,” said the Murlocs;
Mortimer paid little heed.
“Aha!” the Tuskarr said, “It seems
The cooking broth is done!
We’re ready to begin!” But then
He saw he’d have no fun.
For Mortimer already, well,
Had eaten every one.
The Tuskarr grew so very mad
And cried, “You little twerp!”
He hardly could believe his plan
The wyvern would usurp.
And Mortimer just shrugged and then
Let out a little burp.
Thus concludes our charming tale
Of Murloc genocide,
Of wyvern walrus wandering
And fish-man woe betide.
A happier ending I don’t think
I ever could provide.
EPIC VERSE!
[Header image provided by Rioriel from Postcards From Azeroth, reproduced here with permission and many thanks. Click here to see the souped-up Postcard version!]
Aromatic Orgrimmar
Okay, so, there weren’t any suggestions for today’s installment of Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge, so instead, I went back to some of the previous posts and basically yanked together a few different ideas that I hadn’t used yet. Hence today’s installment! Just one left, guys — this Thursday will be the last entry in our April full o’ EPIC VERSE, so I’m counting on you all to dig down deep and give me some good options to work with! Don’t drop the ball here, folks! YOUR WARCHIEF HAS SPOKEN!
A bastion standing strong in harsh terrain,
The solitary hold of Durotar,
Where all misguided sieges fall in vain:
Behold the shining might of Orgrimmar.
The sights familiar glimmer in our eyes,
And sounds echoing in ears for all to tell,
But in the Spirit Valley, what surprise
To find the touchstone sense would be the smells.
To south, the goblin stench of industry
With Kaja’Cola undercurrents waft;
To north, the pungent herbal potpourri
That trolls with hookahs spew so very oft.
And truly, that’s the scent that takes me back,
To days in Northrend sniffing ’round Zul’Drak.
EPIC VERSE!
[Header image provided by Khizzara from Blog of the Treant, used here with permission and many thanks.]
Locks in Socks
Today’s installment of Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge – as always, keep those suggestions coming for next time in the comments section!
Locks
Socks
Docks
Brox
Brox on docks.
Locks in socks.
Brox on locks in socks on docks.
Socks on Brox and locks on docks.
Locks in socks on Brox on docks.
Trolls with bowls smoke.
Trolls with poles poke.
Trolls with poles poke bowls till holes broke.
Trolls extol their hole poke goals and
Trolls console their souls, smoke bowls and
Troll patrols troll souls with smoke and
Troll bowl smoke soaks folk who choke.
First I’ll make a troll bowl smoke hole.
Then I’ll make a troll pole poke hole.
You can make a troll bowl smoke hole.
You can make a troll pole poke hole.
And here’s a new goal, Mr. Brox…
Socks on trolls who troll on locks.
Locks on docks steal souls from trolls and
Trolls sans souls put pox on locks.
Now we come to DoTs and HoTs, sir.
DoTs and HoTs go tick and tock, sir.
DoT go tick and HoTs go tock, sir.
Try to say this, Mr. Brox, sir.
DoTs on hawks tick.
HoTs on Brox tock.
Six sick clicks DoT
Six hawk flocks up.
Hawk flocks DoT-up
Shock stalks fel pup.
Fel pup stalks hawk flocks to hell, yup.
Hawk flocks’ yell shocks fel pup locks and
Fel pups smell up dell on walks.
Now you try it, Mr. Brox, sir.
It is time we let you talk, sir.
“Please, sir. I don’t like this game, sir.
I am not this frigging lame, sir.
I get all the trolls and docks, sir,
Mixed up with the souls and socks, sir.
I can’t do it, Mr. Lock, sir.”
I’m so sorry, Mr. Brox, sir.
Here’s an easy game to play.
Here’s an easy thing to say…
Mean orcs.
Clean forks.
Seen forks?
Green orcs!
Green orcs eat pork meat with clean forks.
Clean orc forks beat sweet pork spleen corks.
Green orcs put clean forks in spleen meat.
Mean orcs put corks in sweet Tweet greet.
“That’s not easy, Mr. Lock, sir.”
Who limps?
Imp limps.
Sly wimp imp limps.
Who stocks sly wimp imps with limps?
Locks in socks stock imps with limps.
Wimp imp limps shock locks in socks while
Locks’ wimp imps stock box of socks.
Sly imps spy on locks in socks and
Spry imps, my, throw rocks at locks.
Limp rocks imp walks, blimp sky high! and
Wimp imp pimps for succubi.
“Hold on, hold on! That was stretching!
Those last few have got me retching!
That last one was rather lewd, sir.
I think you are very rude, sir!”
Sorry, sorry, Mr. Brox, sir.
Let’s continue our nice talk, sir.
Chen comes.
Genn comes.
Chen’s friends, then some.
Chen brings Genn cheer.
Genn brings Chen beer.
Genn mends Chen’s cheer.
Chen blends Genn’s beer.
Chen’s blends.
Genn’s mends.
Chen-blend beer spills.
Genn-mend cheer fills.
Chen’s chums. Genn’s glum.
Chen’s friends bend some.
Chen’s friends bend Genn’s cheer austere and
Genn’s blend tends to clear Chen’s fears.
Chen’s friends! Ten friends!
Mend Genn! When, Genn?
Chen’s ten friends send beer to Rend, sir.
Genn’s glum trend, forfend, the end, sir.
“My poor mouth can’t say that. No, sir.
My poor mouth is much too slow, sir.”
Well, then…let’s relieve your lungs.
I will lift this Curse of Tongues.
Let’s have a little talk about squabblin’ goblins…
What do you know about squabblin’ goblins? Well…
When squabblin’ goblins bicker,
It’s called squabblin’ goblin babble.
And when they babble even quicker,
It’s called squabblin’ goblin gabble babble.
AND when squabblin’ goblins babble during Scrabble in a gabble,
They call it a squabblin’ goblin Scrabble gabble babble.
AND…
When goblins squabble goblins in a Scrabble gabble babble
And the goblin gabble babble is a quibble over Scrabble,
…they call this a squabblin’ goblin Scrabble quibble gabble babble.
AND…
When the goblins have these quibbles over Scrabble when they babble and the goblins scribble gabbles over Scrabble taking “tribbles”…
…they call this a quibble babble tribble gabble squabblin’ Scrabble goblin scribble.
AND…
“Lock in socks, that’s quite enough, sir.
I won’t say this silly stuff, sir.
All this babble hurts my head, sir.
I’ll go back to being dead, sir.”
EPIC VERSE!
(Side note, by the way – I really feel like this poem, and Orc Lemon Squares from the other day, are really screaming out for illustrations. So if any of you are artistically inclined and think you might be interested in helping to enhance your Warchief’s EPIC VERSE to its fullest potential, contact me at garrosh1337@gmail.com. THAT IS AN ORDER.)
[Header image provided by Khizzara from Blog of the Treant, used here with permission and many thanks.]
Two for one special
So, needless to say after yesterday’s mailbag, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. I still plan on making some inspection stops in the Eastern Kingdoms, but the timetable might be spread out a little more than it would have been, what with some other things I need to check up on.
Still, I also definitely need to check on the northern parts of the Eastern Kingdoms, and I’m probably pretty overdue to pay Sylvanas a visit in the Undercity. So with that in mind, here’s today’s installment of Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge – two short poems today, one on who’s-his-face, the blood elf leader guy…
There was a blood elf named…whatever,
Who they tell me is noble and clever.
After Kael’thas went loony
And left Silvermoon, he
Installed in his place…um…whoever.
…and one in tribute to one of Sylvanas’…um…colorful citizens.
There was a man named Jeremiah
Who was a Forsaken pariah.
If someone encroaches
On selling cockroaches
They’d best pray for some kind of messiah.
EPIC VERSE!
Monday Mailbag
Don’t forget to make your last-minute suggestions for Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge this week! The last installment was the Sylvanas poem from Friday, so be sure to put your ideas in the comments there. In the meantime, let’s have a look at this week’s mail…
Since you’ve shown an interest in this week’s Noblegarden activities, I thought you might want to know about some rather…strange events going on around them. Down here in Bloodhoof Village, many of us have been engaging in the traditional egg hunts. As you probably already know, some of those eggs are magical, and when gathered they spawn several bunnies. So fairly early on in the holiday season, the village ends up being filled with dozens of these little rabbits, hopping around all over the place and going about their business.
That much is fine, it’s part of the holiday and we don’t mind the rabbits at all. The problem is that this year, we’re having an extra, unexpected guest whom we weren’t expecting. A few days into Noblegarden, the forest nymph Mylune, whom I think you’ve met, showed up unannounced and…well…just started going nuts. Not violent nuts or anything, she just saw all the bunnies and flipped. She’s been scampering around the village hugging as many rabbits as she can herd together, talking baby talk to them, and squealing on and on every time she sees more of them.
She’s not bothering anyone, really, just minding her own bunny-hugging business, and I can’t say she’s doing any harm. We tauren generally are on good terms with the dryads, so I don’t think we’re going to have any real trouble with her. It’s just…really weird. So I thought you might want to know what was happening.
–Maur Raincaller, Bloodhoof Village
Huh. Well, Maur, as long as she’s not actually causing any real problems, this might be one that we just let sit. Not to stick you guys with her charming company down there in Bloodhoof Village, but honestly? After last time, I’m not going anywhere near that chick. You should be fine, the holiday’s over now so she’ll probably go home soon enough, just make sure your newbie druids down there don’t try shifting into animal forms while she’s around. And you might want to tell any hunters you’ve got to keep their distance if they have pets. Oh and also, it might be a little inconvenient, I know, but you might want to give your windrider master a day or two off and just close down the flight path. I know from experience the wyverns probably aren’t going to get a lot done while she’s around, and your flight master will probably appreciate being spared the headaches. And possible bosom-clasp bruises.
How come people always be makin’ a big deal about dese death knights? I be pwnin’ dem down here in de Echo Isles ever since dey started seein’ dey trainers here.
–Bob, Echo Isles
Um, okay, first of all, idiot, there ARE no death knight trainers in the Echo Isles. There aren’t any baby death knights running around the junior league training areas like Echo Isles or Razor Hill or whatever. Because – NEWS FLASH, dimwit – all the death knights in the Horde are former Knights of the Ebon Blade, who were turned into death knights by Arthas back in the day, so the ONLY place they can train is in their own damn floaty city out in the Eastern Plaguelands. Which you would KNOW if you didn’t have your head jammed so far up your ass that you don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on AROUND you.
Which brings me to my next point. Dude, what the fuck is up with you? Seriously. Every few weeks I get some letter from you where you’re asking about some shit that absolutely anybody with a brain already knows, and half the time you’ve got something cringe-inducingly WRONG, so like, really, what’s your deal? Did you just get dropped on your head like eight thousand times? Did you, Dontrag, and Utvoch draw straws to see who got how much of the one brain you’ve got between you all, only you wound up with nothing because you lost focus and stuck your straws in your nose and started cracking yourself up making walrus noises? Or did you put on a bear suit for who the fuck knows what reason, then made the bad decision to drop by Hyjal, and next thing you knew that aforementioned prancy head case Mylune ran up and started squeezing you till she literally made you shit your brain right out? Because I’m really trying to figure you out, and I’m not coming up with much of anything other than something like that.
I tell you, I give Vol’jin a lot of crap, but spirits help him if this is the kind of wall-to-wall hired help he’s got to choose from down there.
I’m not quite sure how to begin, or even if you would want to hear from me. I’m sorry that I haven’t tried to contact you until now. I hope that in the end you’ll understand why.
When the red pox tore through our people in Nagrand, you and I were both afflicted, like most of the rest of the Mag’har. It was probably so long ago that you barely even remember it, if you do at all. I remember it well. I remember how sick you became. But I knew you would make it through. Even then, you were strong. You were always so strong.
Eventually the healers of Garadar began to cure our people of the red pox. Bit by bit, our little forgotten village began to recover. My symptoms, though, continued undiminished, no matter what our shamans did. Worse yet, in a few cases, those who had been cured found themselves reinfected after being around me, only this time with symptoms that were far more severe, and resisted all attempts at treatment. Almost without exception, they died.
I, on the other hand, lived on, suffering but alive, as if the pox and I were locked in a stalemate: me too strong to die, the disease too strong to fade. The shamans decided that somehow I had become a carrier for a far more virulent strain of that hateful disease.
In time, Garadar recovered, and I was the only one left, with no end to the pox in sight. More and more, those who came close to me found themselves infected. And more and more quickly, those who fell infected would die.
In time I decided that I could not remain a burden to our people. I exiled myself from the Mag’har, taking up shelter in a small hovel hidden away in the mountains near the Ancestral Grounds. When time and illness finally took me, I thought, at least I would be close to our sacred place. Perhaps the spirits would help guide me to the next life.
I disappeared quietly one night. At my urging, Greatmother Geyah told the village that the pox had finally taken me. In the eyes of Garadar, I had died. Only a handful of the elders knew the truth.
Years passed. The pox carried on unabated. So did I. All the while, I watched from afar as best I could. I watched as the demons’ hold on our once-beautiful world waned. I watched as the Mag’har slowly regathered themselves. And I watched you, Garrosh. I watched you grow up, strong as you always were, a man before your years, denied the luxury of a childhood. And I watched you live in a self-made purgatory forged of your father’s sins.
It broke my heart.
Years more passed, and you left Draenor to pursue a new life. A better life, I prayed.
Then, not long ago, a group of healers found me in my mountain refuge. I did not know them, and their garments were of a make unfamiliar to me. They were not of the Mag’har, some not even orcs. I do not know how they knew to find me, but they claimed to have new medicines from the world the orcs had taken up as their new home. While they could not offer a cure, they claimed they could contain the pox enough to prevent its spread. Under their treatment, the disease would no longer be airborne, only contagious by contact. A small comfort, but now at least, they said, the pain of the disease need not be compounded by the misery of solitude.
In time, I decided to risk revealing myself. I returned to Garadar, to the welcoming embrace of Greatmother Geyah.
In the days since my return, she has updated me on much that has transpired in my absence. The war, the internment, the demise of Mannoroth and the lifting of the blood haze. But most of all she told me of you. Strong and proud. A hero of a faraway war, fought against the icy talons of death itself. A leader of men, and now, Warchief of our people.
I do not wish anything from you, Garrosh. I have decided to reach out to you now only that you might finally know the truth, and know that I am so very, very proud of you. Do honor to our people and lead them well. As I always have, in this life or the next, I will be watching over you.
Love always, my Garrosh,
–Lakkara, Nagrand
Um…
<blink>
<stare>
…Mom?
The Last Stands of Sylvanas
So, a little late, I know, but here it is, this week’s second (belated Thursday) installment of EPIC VERSE in Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge! Featuring the return of everyone’s favorite Argent Gossip Girl, Argent Confessor Paletress. As always, comment away with suggestions and idea for next week’s MASTERPIECES.
Hi again,
Garrosh, friend.
Hope you’re doing fine.
What brings you
Here anew?
I see that you brought wine.
Hold on, now.
I know how
You made me talk last time.
I’m still mad
At how bad
I spilled my guts (in rhyme!).
I refuse!
’Twas with booze
You got me to tell.
Whatcha got?
Jello shots?
Oh, well, what the hell.
* * * * *
The Dark Lady passed through here,
In the Lich King’s final year.
Sought advice
Once or twice
From – guess who – truly yours.
From our talks we grew aware
Of just how much, in fact, we share,
Like our urge
To purge the Scourge.
(And sometimes dress like whores.)
Still her memories recur
Of life as Ranger Windrunner,
When the doom
Of Silvermoon
Left all appearing lost.
Last defender, there she stood;
Fight with her last breath she would.
Pain was fine:
Buy them time
She would at any cost.
There she took her final breath;
They raised a banshee in undeath –
Could not kill
Her iron will:
As strong now as it had been.
Summoned up her fallen brothers,
Lordaeron’s lost souls, and others,
Bore their pain,
Broke their chains,
And hacked the Lich King’s admin.
Years have passed and foes have died,
Fruitlessly Sylvanas tried
To soothe chagrin
For zombie kin
From all the blows they’d taken.
Cursed and scorned and plagued with doubt –
Damn the world that shut them out!
In her care
Her children there
Would never be forsaken.
When at last the Lich King fell,
Banished to the blackest hell,
Off alone
To Frozne Throne
Sylvanas made her trek.
Arthas’ final demise
She would confirm with her own eyes;
And so higher
To the spire
She ventured up to check.
It was true; her foe was gone;
His broken corpse she spat upon,
But the hole
In her soul:
It felt an endless void.
For so long her single thought
Was bringing Menethil to naught;
Now the task
Was done at last
And she was unemployed.
All her past she dwelled upon,
Shining elvish future gone,
Time she slept:
Off she lept
And fell toward deadly spikes.
But before she fell to night,
Self-impaled on saronite,
Near would sing
Val’kyr wings
And stave off the last strike.
Val’kyr visions was she granted,
Of a future disenchanted:
Her adored
By the Horde
Were marshaled out as fodder.
Unprotected, now she’d seen,
Left without their Banshee Queen,
With a haste
Went to waste
Before worgen marauders.
Her Forsaken children, cherished:
She could not leave them to perish.
Made a deal,
And, surreal,
Returned to her unlife.
Bound now to the scheming Val’kyr,
Brought them to her home locale here,
To begin
To watch her kin
And guard them from the strife.
I remember when we spoke,
The elf who bent but never broke,
How she knew
What she’d do
Would carry heavy cost.
For her people to stay whole,
Someone had to pay their soul:
No defers;
’Twould be hers –
It was already lost.
All her elvish life she’d said
She’d fight to wipe out the undead;
Tables turned:
Living spurned:
Now she would forswear it.
No more kindred’s anguished cries;
Not one more, on her watch, dies.
Tortured, pained,
Conscience stained:
For them, she will bear it.
* * * * *
Hey, hold on!
Liquor’s gone?
Then the story’s done!
Go restock;
That would rock.
And then we’ll have more fun.
One last dose,
One last toast
To Sylvanas’ sorrow.
Not undead,
But man, my head:
I’ll pay for this tomorrow.
No, you wag,
No Jaina gag.
No more lurid defection.
(Although, she’d seen
The Banshee Queen
In the Halls of Reflection…)
EPIC VERSE!
Mini-extension?
Just a very quick note about the latest installment in Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge — for those of you who’ve been following religiously (AND THAT WOULD BE ALL OF YOU AMIRITE?), you know that I’ve committed to posting a new EPIC VERSE based on reader requests every Tuesday and Thursday in the month of April.
I’m just making this post to hedge my bets, because holy geez it’s been a hectic day, and I still have a ton that needs to get done tonight (something about a rash of sabotage to the demolishers up by the north gate, and some kind of snafu with the maintenance crew scheduling, and Eitrigg thinking Gallywix has gotten his green little paws into the demo parts requisitions and is skimming something off the top somehow, like WTF), so I may not have enough time to finish up my current MASTERPIECE to post tonight. If not, you can count on it being posted Friday, so rest assured you won’t be missing out on your second EPIC VERSE of the week! YOU CAN BREATHE EASY NOW, YOU CAN KNOCK OFF ALL THE WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH.
Orc Lemon Squares
Today’s entry for Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge! This one is inspired by a repeated suggestion from the last few days, involving my Greatmother’s famous (previously secret) recipe, and the meddling tree who publicized it and forced me to institute whole new culinary policies a while back. Remember to make suggestions for next time in your comments!
Edenvale –
She’s a tree.
Edenvale –
Don’t you see?
Edenvale’s a tree,
I see.
Edenvale,
She had a scare –
She saw Garrosh
Over there.
“Oh no! Garrosh!”
Cried the tree.
“Please don’t kill me!
Let me be!
I’m your friend!
Yes! I swear!
Please don’t kill me,
Garrosh-There!”
“Don’t you fret
Your sappy head!
I won’t kill you,”
Garrosh said.
“No? You won’t?”
“Oh no,” he said.
“Or you already
Would be dead!”
“Oh,” she said,
The silly tree.
“Then, what do you want
With me?”
He came closer,
Garrosh-There.
And he said,
“I’m here to share.”
“Here to share,
Garrosh-There?”
“Here to share,”
Said Garrosh-There.
“Are you okay?”
Asked the tree.
“That doesn’t sound like you,”
Said she.
“Yeah, I know.
It kind of sucks.
But I figure,
What the fuck.
Greatmother says
I should share –
I should share
Her lemon squares.
So since Greatmother
Says to share,
I will try,”
Said Garrosh-There.
“So,” he said,
And gave a glare,
“Would you like
Some lemon squares?”
Edenvale looked nervous,
True.
She didn’t know
Quite what to do.
“Oh,” she said,
And held her nose.
“I really don’t want
To impose.”
“No, it’s fine,
They must be eaten.
Here, try one.
Or you’ll get beaten.”
“No, that’s okay,
None for me.”
“What’s the problem,
Stupid tree?”
“Well,” she said
To Garrosh-There.
“Well,” she said,
And looked quite scared.
“I do not like
Orc lemon squares.
I do not like them,
Garrosh-There.”
“Would you like them
Here or there?”
“I would not like them
Here or there.
I would not like them
Anywhere.
I do not like
Orc lemon squares.
I do not like them,
Garrosh-There.”
“Would you like them
In your home?
Would you like them
With a gnome?”
“I would not like them
In my home.
I would not like them
With a gnome.
I do not like them
Here or there.
I do not like them
Anywhere.
I do not like
Orc lemon squares.
I do not like them,
Garrosh-There.”
“Would you eat them
On a boat?
With a Naaru
Or space-goat?”
“I would not eat them
On a boat.
I’d simply give them
To the goat.
I do not want them
In my home.
I will not try them
With a gnome.
I do not want them
Here or there.
I do not want them
Anywhere.
I just don’t like
Orc lemon squares.
I just don’t like them,
Garrosh-There!”
“Would you, could you,
Might, may, will,
Try them up
In Teldrassil?”
“I would not, could not eat them there!
In Teldrassil, or anywhere!
I do not want them on a boat.
I will not share with some space-goat.
I do not want them in my home.
I do not want them with a gnome.
I do not want them here or there,
I do not want them anywhere!
I do not like orc lemon squares!
I do not like them, Garrosh-There!”
“How about
A doggy bag?
Served by Utvoch
And Dontrag?”
“Enough already!”
Cried the tree.
“Garrosh-There,
You let me be!”
“Would you try them
On the moon?
With Cenarius
And Mylune?”
“No, I would not
On the moon!
Even if they brought
Elune!”
“Would you try them,
Just once, ever,
Up amid
The Twisted Nether?”
“No! No! Not in the Nether!
I do not want to try them, ever!
Not in a bag! Not on the moon!
Not with Dontrag or with Mylune!
Not on a boat! Not in my home!
Not with a goat! Not with a gnome!
I will not try them here or there!
I do not want them ANYWHERE!
I do not like orc lemon squares!
I just don’t like them, Garrosh-There!”
“You don’t like them.
So you say.
Try them! Try them
And you may.
Try them and you may,
I say.”
“Garrosh, dammit!
Fine, at last.
I’ll try them –
Just get off my ass.
Say…
I like orc lemon squares!
I do! I like them, Garrosh-There!
And I would eat them in my home!
And I would eat them with a gnome!
And I would have them on a boat,
And I would share with a space-goat!
I would eat them to my fill
All the way to Teldrassil!
I would take a doggy bag
(But spare me Utvoch and Dontrag)!
I would eat them on the moon,
With Cenarius and Mylune!
Yes, I will eat them here and there!
Oh, I would eat them anywhere!
I do so love
Orc lemon squares!
Thank you,
Thank you,
Garrosh-There.”
“See, I told you,”
Garrosh said.
“Plus you’re lucky
You’re not dead.”
“They’re so good!
So good, I say!
I might post them!
Yes I may!
I’ll post them on my blog,
I say!”
“Hold on a minute,
Silly tree.
That’s my Greatmother’s
Recipe.
Her recipe,
You silly tree.
We keep it
In the family!”
“But oh, they’re so good,
Garrosh-There!
They’re just too yummy
Not to share!
I’m sure your Greatmother
Won’t care!
I’ll spread her secret
Everywhere!
Now don’t get mad,
Garrosh! Relax!”
But he had gone
To get his axe.
EPIC VERSE!
Ode to Gorehowl
Yeah, I know I’m getting this one in a little late, but I had a busy day today. Endless glorious requisition forms with Eitrigg, which again begs the questions, with all my underlings why do I not have one whose job it is to handle the paperwork?
Anyway, here’s today’s entry for Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge. Fill up those comments with ideas and themes and little nuggets of goodness to inspire me again, and we’ll have our next EPIC VERSE next Tuesday.
When I cast eyes upon the glinting steel
Of Gorehowl, gravest axe that e’er was made,
My thoughts return to Grommash’s ordeal
When Mannoroth fell to my father’s blade.
The greatest battle that the blade had known,
In Ashenvale where Demons Fall to fate:
Where Grom exchanged for all our lives, his own,
And plunged Gorehowl though thick infernal plate.
I wonder now if it is worthy held:
Since Grommash fell, the axe has many slain,
But greatest since that time Gorehowl has felled,
In place of bane of blood, ’tis sire of Baine.
I marvel it, and we, have come so far;
Yet fear it best had stayed with Malchezaar.
EPIC VERSE!
Songs of Innocence and XP
My first product of Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge! I ended up deciding that this entry would work better as TWO poems working as a set, rather than one. I’ll be working on something new for Thursday, so be sure to give me suggestions in the comments to this post (and obviously feel free to leave actual COMMENT comments too). So, here we go…
The Dryad
Dryad girl, who made thee?
Do you know who made thee?
Who made thee such damaged goods,
Hugging bunnies in the woods?
Made thee DEHTA’s poster girl,
Snuggling puppies till I hurl?
Filled your head with flowers and fluff,
Blind to when enough’s enough;
Dryad girl, who made thee?
Do you know who made thee?
Dryad girl, I’ll tell thee;
Sister, let me tell thee,
Whosoever, ’twas a dick
Who beat you with that nutjob stick.
Took your love of creatures, heaven,
Dialed it right up to eleven;
Firing my exasperation.
With bosom-clasped concatenation.
Dryad girl, release me.
Shut up and release me.
The Dyad
Dontrag! Utvoch! Deadly dumb,
Endless yapping flapping gums:
What misguided hand or eye
Could frame thy dim stupidity?
By whose diagrams were cast
Your dingy minds, always half-assed?
In what furnace of the dull
Was forged the cogwheels in your skulls?
Whose confounded bright idea
To give you verbal diarrhea?
Strength of thought and length of verse:
That relation is inverse.
Edgewise word was never got,
And no clue have e’er you bought.
Faithful, true, and proud to serve;
But oh the cost: my final nerve.
Rock and hard place, woe the choice
Between yours and the dryad’s voice.
Dammit, I might go with hooves:
The dryad has, but you are boobs.
Dontrag! Utvoch! Deadly dumb!
Headaches rise like pounding drums.
What misguided hand or eye
Would hire thy dim stupidity?
EPIC VERSE!
