Thin green paint peeling
on the pipes above our heads
drifts down, streaks sterling
the warlock's locks and thick robe's threads.
One world we've wandered,
confined below the boards,
mimics memes unsinned,
unearthed and freed with spells and swords.
Master's tamed torches,
light little the passage.
Meetings and matches,
in doubt or devout, guilded we dredge.
Blockade the back door
and flank the former banquet
This tableau tips lore
from fantasy thought to, "Critical HIT!!1111"
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2 comments:
Lost the cantor on the last two stanzas. I'll work on it.
Hi Megan:
Such a happy little poem, song?? Stop by sometime.
Jean & Donnie
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