Although I may incur heavy fines
I do not meet my Dwarves in mines.
In Dagon bars, on reeling wharves–
Why THAT is where I find my Dwarves.
Bitter, drunken, exiled, mean?
Oh, those are the Dwarves that YOU have seen
I know better. Can’t complain:
The Dwarves I know are all insane.
Who can blame them? Not I, folks.
Sanity is just a hoax.
All the saners I have met
Have seen things they wish to forget.
Living out their normal lives
A cloud of guilt which nothing shrives
Lacking purpose, lacking goal
They complain just to feel whole.
I have a friend, a Necromancer
(Who named her Death-Wand “Tiny Dancer”)
Whose leaves no bluntish words unsaid:
“Gods, I sure do love the Undead.
“With stupid things they’re not besotted
And we all know their brains are rotted;
When they’re morons, it’s no trial
Because they are not in denial.
“Humans wear ignorance’s ugly crown
When they’re wrong, they double down.
They need to act intelligent
No matter how much truth they’ve bent.
“My Zombie friends speak fewish words
“Brains brains brains” – they are not nerds.
But what they lack in conversation,
They make up in communication.
“They want to shamble. Keeps them fresh.
They want to feast on human flesh.
They are Undead. This is their End.
They no longer need pretend.”
She’s right. Humans don’t make sense
Until you cut through their pretense.
And they won’t help. They won’t come clean.
Go ahead. Ask “What do you mean?”
A true friend might pause.
Consider actions and their cause.
And give you signals, or else clues,
Something that a friend could use.
But most humans, friend or foe
Barely know even what THEY know
They don’t consider much, or plan;
How foolish is the race of Man.
Oh! I was talking Dwarves, I guess;
And of insanity (more not less)
And that Dwarven Bar. Oops!
I apologize for these drunken hoops.
In ending this poem, I must see
I currently hate Humanity.
In my defense, it’s sort of fate:
There really is a lot to hate.
Of course, though I won’t give my name
I, too, am Human, just the same.
I, too, am wearing Unreliable Pants;
I gave you a bunch of rants.
Oh, somewhere there are wildling wharves
Full of the strangest, drunkest Dwarves.
And I’ll be back. There’s no other plan:
I can hardly live amongst the race of Man.
___
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