Fertile Soil

My Gentle Readers, I am land capable of producing crops in abundance.  That is the meaning of fertile.  And when someone comes along and plants something in me, I write.  I write and I write and I write write write.  I write that I'm right, and put down here put downs against the short and the tall, the fat and the small, in fact for all, for that's what I scrawl.

This row, pronounced row as in boat and not row as in sow, sprouts from recent seeds that have been sown about the overblown rhetoric of grognards that groan that the game has not grown in tone since its becoming known.  "This thing, I say, is, as I say, impossible to stay, because I say, so why do you flay the horse that dead lays, while enterprise pays, so pray, why do you make hay of this way that we play, it's all so cliche, we'll play it our way whatever you say, you'll make no headway with this blogging mainstay." 

And if so that I can't with this descant that I'll grant, for it's a scant rant that could enchant a houseplant, I'll yet slant this decant with a sharp shan't shan't shan't.  I'll write just in spite of the sprite that's too tight for this month's cockfight, and put down in words the slurs for the nerds, absurd as they're blurred by the sounds of my words.  I'll let the queue review the menu of the brew that I spew, however construed is the zoo that ensues, though a new world should be pooh pooh poohed.

For the right that is right is a written screed pittin' a point that's befittin' when the scene's gone to quittin', that the game's not just for sittin' in a dumb corner knittin'.  When the game's made for shills, we won't take to the hills, we'll fight for our thrills and write with our quills that the game's about skills, not anthills with frills, distilled to the gills and choked out of gristmills.

So I'll write and I'll write, I'll write write write write, 'till the trite is put flight.  In truth it's delight, to smite with eyes bright the wights of this blight.

But now though excited, and feeling beknighted, I'll leave off on this height and wish readers goodnight.  Beknownst it's alright, for our way is alight; and when again I'll recite you'll all get an invite.

Days

There's a rhythm in rush these days,
Where the lights don't move and the colors don't fade
Leaves you empty with nothing but dreams
In a world gone shallow in a world gone lean;
Sometimes there's things a man cannot know
Gears won't turn and the leaves won't grow
There's no place to run and no gasoline
Engines won't turn and the train won't leave.

I will stay with you tonight
Hold you close 'til the morning light
In the morning watch a new day rise
We'll do whatever just to stay alive.

Jose Gonzalez - Stay Alive

The Day Before Yule

Twas the day before Yule, when all through the town
An orc tribe was pillaging, with dire wolf hounds.
The inn was ablaze ‘neath the high chimney there,
From the staff of the wizard on watch in the square.

The townspeople were frightened, for many were dead,
While ten hung from high poles, missing their heads.
And mamma with her khopesh and I with my axe
Had just come around to pay the year’s tax.

When off to our left there screamed a mad hatter,
“Kill them both!” he ordered, “And leave them in tatters!”
So that mob turned about, and rushed us in a flash
With spears used for rending and whips made to lash.

The blood on the armor of our new rushing foes
Fed a lust that we’d gained to lay a few blows.
When at once with my wandering eyes I saw clear,
That wizard was readying a spell to be feared.

With the face of a weasel, so pale and so sick,
I knew in a moment it must be Quaint Slick.
More terrible than weapons his casting became
While he danced and cavorted and called each demon’s name,

Now Juiblex! Now Orcus! Now Hezrou and Vrock!
On Yeenog, On Balor, Glabrezu and Plock!
Sour their blood and make their hearts stall!
Now slaughter them, slaughter them, slaughter them all!

As thought follows action when death threatens by
I had thrown my war axe without knowing why.
It had hit that mean wizard and ruined his cried hew –
His spell it fell flat - and Quaint Slick he did too!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard Mamma give proof,
That she could handle every ruffian, head, hide and hoof.
Though I raised my axe and I turned fast around,
Not an orc was left standing, nor a dog to be found.

Then I saw Quaint rise and limp off on foot,
“Hurry on,” I cried, “It’s no time to stay put.”
So we chased him through town ‘till we came to a shack
The hut of a peddlar, at the end of the track.

The place it was shambled and a little bit scary,
We knew to approach it, we had to be wary.
I felt a cold sweat arise on my brow
And heard Mamma say, “What do we do now?”

I took in a sharp breath between gritted teeth;
I slid out my runesword from inside its sheath.
The wizard’s hut shook as if made of jelly,
Then the ground all around grew terribly smelly.

“Gawd that’s awful!” said Mamma to herself,
“It’s as bad as a bath house run by an elf!”
I had to agree, as the stench hurt my head,
Much more of this and we’d both soon be dead.

Then I remembered, trying to think through the murk,
I had an old item that just had to work!
It was down in my pack beneath my clean clothes,
I fought with the straps (‘cause that’s how it goes).

I pulled it out and blew it, that sacred old whistle,
The fat woman said it would cast magic missile.
Then I heard the sky clap and saw with delight,
A hundred magic darts, ending the fight!

(And as Quaint died, there in the shed

We celebrated the season asleep in our beds)


P.S.

This was not copied from elsewhere; I wrote this original version yesterday.