by Venator of VerumSince I've been drinking
Wot you been drinking?
To my dearest 'the famous grouse':
Thy regions that I can not yet reach,
I foreswear that I would not ditch.
Till I slay a dragon, a troll, and a witch.
Unless you found a wound I can not stitch.
Were I the beastly me, you would never reach.
With a wound necessarily deject.
I, a monster perpetually erect.
Then would I eventually accept,
A maiden adamantly suspect.
To others' pain always deject.
Here am I sniffing at your loins,
Perceptible to the smell of your groins'.
A foul creature of ones' desire.
Asking you to reciprocally call me Sire.
Pfft...
Show me a poet of these recent days that isn't.
Perhaps the one with a dumb rhyme,
Or perhaps the one who is sublime?
Is it the one that tries to entertain,
The masses, without the brain?
Or are the people too lazy to seek,
What it really means to be meek?
Yet to be hardy as steel and forge,
When they meet the toughest they can gorge?
Perhaps the fault lies in thee?
Entertainable by lies of being free?
Or perhaps the fault is mine?
By being an idiot's forlorn shrine?
I don't know about talented, even less a poet. But for you my dear I imagined this:
As I coughed up blood, faring on the seas of my chunder,
A child named Thorin gave me a soft smile and her thunder,
Asking me gently with a forlorn expression: Gesünder?
And no need to be obliged. Merely being appreciative of your own imagination will suffice.
