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.

EPIC VERSE!

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