A poem in jest
of a Druid (the best,
or at least that's what poem purported.)
has angered the 'king',
a trivial thing,
that's left his poor panties contorted.

Balled in a wad
the uncomfortable sod
makes a pathetic poetic attempt.
Though he claims himself king
(Of what? Not a thing.)
Seems it's writing his talents exempt.

The Te'Straifs, ever loyal
(unlike the 'kingly' uncouth boil
on the unwashed nostrils of the card-flinger troupe)
make replies, in the poetic vein,
which 'amuse' the king, who's quite inane
with his libelous reply, intended to give us the boot.

He believes he has skill
in something other than 'kill'
unfortunately, he's dead wrong.
"Squiggles" tale might as well be an epic,
passed on down through the epochs,
while all this king ever passed is a bong.

Even if Squig ain't your thing
give politeness a "ding"
at the shopcounter of posted replies.
But then of tact he'd be unaware
spending all his time (Do I dare? Yes.)
between Elene's cold, undead thighs.

So fling your silly cards
O 'king'
of Spines-dwelling trollops and bores.
Leave writing to those with skill
so we no longer see your piggish swill
just stay in your brothel, 'mongst the whores.

Thus I bid you all "Later."
And please, don't be haters.
Keep the boards tasteful at least.
I hope you've enjoyed
th' ryhme and meter employed
in this burn-filled lyrical feast.

(Long live Squiggles and nonsense verse, and a Pox on the Cardflinger
King!)

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Lleian, in the year 263 MA.