Quoth the Druid
Once upon a late night dreary,
As I pondered, weak and weary
After many – far too many –
Gaming hours sealed off aloof,
While I nodded, nearly napping
Suddenly there came a tapping
Like an o’erhead wyvern crapping
Crapping pellets on my roof.
“That’s no shitting wyvern,” said I,
“Casting crap upon my roof.
That’s just knocking, stupid goof.”
Yeah, I know, that was retarded
To think my roof had been bombarded
By some incontinent wyvern
Doing business as he’d soar.
But, you see, I was so sleepy,
And exhaustion had me weepy,
And the tapping knocks were creepy –
Creepy tapping at my door
So my sleepy brain went places
Places never gone before
Anyway, yeah, it’s the door.
Then I strode so very bravely
To the door and bellowed gravely,
“What the fuck, dude, have you never
Ever used your brain before?
Never mind the creepy tapping –
Shades of sounds of wyverns crapping –
Yeah, forget it – just recapping
How you knocked upon my door.
Never mind your oddball rapping
Freaked me out – I should be napping,
Having dreams of BG capping
(Just provided rogues aren’t sapping)
And of human spinal snapping,
Not to mention big game trapping,
To the wagon, carcass strapping,
Mount the head with hunters clapping,
Then I’ll do some vendor slapping,
Winter’s Veil and present wrapping,
Hear the sounds of brown wings flapping,
Shit, I’m back to wyverns crapping!
Fuck it! This whole part I’m scrapping.
(Yeah, I really need some napping.)
But, the knocking on my door:
Dude, the time – it’s half past four.
Look, I don’t know where you grew up,
Or what mess you’re here to brew up,
But I’ll tell you, dammit, this is
Not the hour to just drop by.
Wrists are sore and eyes are stinging,
Just two bubbles short of dinging,
So, believe me, you are clinging
To your last hope ere you die.
So what business are you bringing?”
Here no sound save crickets singing.
Silence. What’s the deal? Stand by.
“Listen up, dude, I’ve had enough.
Take a hike, and use a haste buff.
Otherwise, it’s late, so tell me
What you came here to discuss.
By all rights I should be sleeping,
But the weird hours that I’m keeping
Have saved you a heap of weeping
When you came to start a fuss.”
And at that, heroic leaping,
Flung the door wide open thus:
Holy fuck! Lather-on-us!
Just a moment was he standing,
Posture stern and face demanding,
And he said, “Hellscream, the wrath
Of DEHTA now shall you incur!”
That one really made me chuckle,
Then a feast of sandwich-knuckle
Flew at him – his knees did buckle
As in air he formed a blur.
All around my chamber flying
When by rights he should be dying!
All my grabs and swings defying
As my rage he dared to stir.
“What the fuck’s your problem!” crying
Out I chased the blasted cur.
Quoth the druid: “Mortimer.”
“Fucking bird!” I screamed as he fled.
“Fucking bird!” He pecked at my head
As he fluttered round the rafters
In the room – annoying, sure.
Swooping ’round, he did not tire.
“Fucking bird!” He hovered higher,
Just beyond my grasp entire,
On and on this did recur.
“Fucking bird!” (At least not fire.)
Flying feathered saboteur.
Quoth the druid: “Mortimer.”
“Yeah, but what about him, bastard?”
Flying nuisance flying faster.
“Fucking bird!” He dipped and dove
And pricked my side as if a burr.
Driven out onto the rampart,
“Fucking bird!” The pricks did restart.
Even though I got a head start
He was on my ass, yes sir.
Driven back into the railing,
Tired and drained, my strength was failing,
Hopelessly my weapon flailing –
Not the fate I would prefer.
“Fucking bird!” I kept on howling.
Then above there came a growling
As of some winged creature prowling,
Swooping down with claw and fur.
’Tis some diving bat or owling
Racing near as if a blur.
Eyes deceive me! Mortimer!
Lather-on-us squawked delighted,
With his ally reunited –
But his joy was quite shortsighted:
Not quite truth did he infer!
For the wyvern’s swooping anger
Loosed afresh from Kor’kron hangar
Was unleashed with piercing fang, er,
Fangs, I mean. (That’s plural, dur.)
And the druid’s damned demented
Diving dusky beak was dented
And his cries grew discontented
As a beating did occur.
Flapping wings of flutt’ring feathers
Slapped around by wyvern leather
As if saying, “Garrosh? Never!
You shall take your leave now, sir!”
Thought he had me? Yeah, whatever.
Some bad news I must confer.
Now go get ’im, Mortimer!
Now the druid’s stitched up, resting,
While my wyvern’s upstairs nesting,
In the attic pen I’d crafted
Where he makes contented purr.
Banes and bombs and birds fate may send,
Kor’kron guards may help to defend,
But above all, you can depend
On what nothing will deter.
Dog may be the human’s best friend –
For the orc? That’s Mortimer.
Off flight duty, that’s for sure.