Dwarves are a curious race my lad,
Bad tempered and bearded and stout.
They move with the grace of a two legged mule,
Or a grizzled old badger with gout.
Make way for unsteady dwarves my boy,
It’s often a symptom of drink.
You can tell ’cause they act like a mad addled bear,
But give every stray mongrel a wink.
What is this, inviting me to tea?
My retort is simply: go fish.
For how does one say in a quite polite way,
That you clearly are taking the pish.
I would not patronise you fair friend,
But ever I’d chastise my self,
If I didn’t alert you to the old dwarven joke:
To leap skyward and head-butt an elf.
So dwarfs are awful, crude and mad?
You question what Dvergar are for.
But to see a dwarf fight is a fair awesome sight,
And to witness the beauty of war.
Ask no more concerning this old dwarf;
I’ve spoken much wisdom this day.
Bring ale! And some whores who can bear bearded folk,
I’ve this reward to squander away.
Thanks a lot for the excellent poem. You made me giggle.