POEMS REGARDING THE FAIR
OF SANTHARIA. COPIED FROM THE
FOUND ON THE WALLS OF SOME OF THE
MOST UNSAVOURY DRINKING
There was a Bard Mistress named
Who some thought a bit of a prude,
But closer inspection,
Revealed her affection,
For poems both bawdy and lewd.
Arti, the Santharian sage,
went updating all in a rage
but a pain in his knee
brought him down like a bee
and warned him 'remember your age'.
There once was an orc with no shame
(We'll be kind and not mention his name)
Such songs did he write,
they X-rated our site
And catapulted it to great fame.
There once was a Sage we named Art,
The converse of a musty old fart
For in his great book
If you took a look
You'd find songs about women and tarts
Alysse is a Northern barbarian,
Her speech patterns aren't very Tharian,
Though she try very hard
she will not be a Bard
For her poetry reeks worse than carrion.
There is an old warg-riding orc
His mouth we should never uncork
For with him spouting phrases
Don't know how in the blazes
He'll avoid being made into pork.
There once was a fellow named Dru,
who never caught as much as a flu.
But when Mira left,
Dru considered a theft,
yet got hit with a curse of mildew.
A talented cook named Alysse,
Was trying her husband to please.
He said, "It's too hard,
So next time use lard;
I really don't care for goose grease!"
Judith dear, our favourite Bard,
made perverse verse concerning lard.
So shocking it was,
a true faux pas,
none who'd read it were left unscarred.
Miraran did love all things
Even if some of them were quite mean
They fed on the meat
of apprentices sweet
Which created an unpleasant scene.
In the greenhouse of one called
Is a plant with incredible tentaclespan
And if you’re the right gender
Oh, it can be very tender
Imagine what eight arms can do then.
A rare four verse lymeryck:
An aspiring young poet named Gean
Wrote lyrics quite bawdy and mean;
When chided by friends,
He pleaded just ends,
For his purse it was getting quite lean.
Quite late in the market he'd play
His squeezebox for pennies, and say,
"I'll write any verse,
For better or worse,
If only my listeners would pay!"
One evening as Judith walked by,
He sang with a glint in his eye,
T'was really quite lewd,
But he hungered - for food -
And was justly rewarded....with pie!
As he wiped the whipped cream from his face,
And sat, as he thought, in disgrace,
Ah, what a faux pas!
He heard rising applause,
And the crowd dubbed him Bard of the place.
An the reply...
There was this young bard
Who thought he played games very neat
But there were other bards
With their hands full of cards
And their jokers were all very sweet
So if a young poet you be
You take this advice home from me
"Don't try to outwit one
It will never work son"
They raise the stakes deftly, you'll see.
And Alysse's take on it...
There once was a young bard
Wrote verses as pointed and keen
As a very sharp sword;
Why, his mildest word
Caused his victims to go for his spleen.
Since these songs were no cause to rejoice
Well, violence ensued and threats choice.
Alas for Firefeet!
He still sings quite sweet,
But soprano's the range for his voice.
And here, once again, is the reply....
Two sisters sweet, each a fair
Were watching the Eye of Lorehaven
This caused such distress
(Blushing, thoughts of their beds)
That a Long Man should come up and save 'm!
Obviously this one, found on
a Lorehold kitchen table,
was composed by a disgruntled peer or tutoree of the sarcastic subject...
A young mage who thought himself smart
Used his tongue far too slickly and tart.
His master cried, "Geoff,
Less speech in a breath,
Lest your air be mistook for a fart!"
Lymer's rhymes are no
respector of persons, as you can see from these exemplars
of politically motivated doggerel...
Though the nobles oft praise old King Thar,
Some think him too holy by far.
Without his inditing
New law courts for fighting,
I'd not have been called to the bar.
Nor does his spouse escape:
Curogana, not overly fussy
Dressed up like a man, the young hussy.
She caused tittle-tattle
When she rode into battle
And snogged with Prince Thar - gods have mussy!
And what about old Brandivere?
"Bring on the Brandi's," we cry,
When a tot has a scrape or a stye,
But old Brandivere
Never used it, we fear,
For it's said to set manhood awry.
Even while she sadly procrastinates,
The instruments of music, she creates.
Oh, hobbits a fiddling,
The Fíoelì a squealing,
Oh dear, our ears decided to vacate.