This was written as a backstory for Fakesteve's MSpaint deity a while back.
In Hawaii, my child, Where the climate is mild, And geologists prep for their theses, In a region untrod Lived a flatulent god On a mountain of petrified feces.
He endured long ago Through much joy and some woe, Far from tourism and entrepreneurship. In the world of today, All his priests went astray - And he ceased to receive his due worship.
Many miles to the east, In a gluttonous feast, Having scarfed lots of kimchi and beans, One young man felt unease, Striving not to cut cheese, Nor to jettison turds in his jeans.
He had hoped that his ass Kept control, but the gas From his suffering sphincter would wrench A lugubrious tune Like a dying bassoon And a damnably dolorous stench.
In the haze 'round his rear Did an image appear In the form of a square brownish creature. "Young apprentice," it said, "There's much effort ahead If you are to become my new preacher."
"What the hell?" thought the kid. "I am Flatus, indeed, And your prayer sure smells very nice. If you love me, mayhap Sculpt my image with crap - But a good MSPaint will suffice."
Avoid restraint; thy tongue must never slumber, Forge every thought's reality through action. Keep friends at arm's length; compensate in number. From scraps and quarrels harvest satisfaction,
But flee if harm awaits. Give all thy voice, And few thy ear. In garish garb rejoice, But moderate thy spending, for thy worth Grows in proportion to thy purse's girth.
Pass judgment on all men, ignore advice, And always borrower and lender be, For fortune often follows usury, And thy endowment hardly shall suffice.
Last but not least of all, thyself deceive; Thou canst then fleece and hoodwink the naive.
This was written with singing in mind (and matches the Schubert song fairly well except the fifth stanza). If someone *cough* mikeymoo *cough* wants to give this a shot,
(the Liszt solo piano version) is faithful to the original. If you can play or find the pure piano portion of Schubert's, all the better. Anyway,
Narrator: Who rides by night through contested land? It is the Tauren, with calf in hand. He holds the newbie safe in his arm From vile Alliance who mean him harm.
Tauren: My son, what makes you shake so fiercely, head to feet? Calf: My father, please, the Erlkonig's leet! He's back there, prancing, he means us strife! Tauren: My son, it's nothing, get a life.
Erlkonig: My dearest noob, come join our team. It beats your wildest dreams! Chromatic flowers bloom by our shores Among which frolic many elven whores!
Calf: My father, my father, and do you not hear Of elvish lands which seem so dear? Tauren: Be quiet, be quiet, my calf: They cannot match Mulgore's beauty by half.
Erlkonig: My dearest newb, come join my kin - For surely you must yearn to win! We rampage Hillsbrad each Friday night, With swarming and corpse-camps and other delight!
Calf: My father, my father, and do you not see Erlkonig's soldiers near that tree? Tauren: My son, my son, there's nothing that way But dying bushes, leafless and gray.
Erlkonig: I want you, I lust for you, newbie bovine, But if you reject me, your ass is mine! Calf: My father, my father, we truly must scram - Erlkonig owns me with Moonfire spam!
Narrator: The Tauren shudders - and spurs on his beast; He prays the newbie is not yet deceased. And then he starts to curse himself: His son had logged off to play Night Elf.
This was written in response to fanatacist's epic animated GIF a while ago.
His Broodling Romance
Trained to stand at attention in organized lines, Torn by glave wurms, by zerglings, by hydralisk spines, Plagued by loathsome defilers when things went amiss, Saved by medics' restorative, sloppy-sweet kiss.
So much death! Whether led by a noob in campaign Or neglected by oov or Berserker, He had shuddered as buddies were cloven in twain Friends no more, only snacks for a lurker.
Each engagement was slaughter, at best a retreat, And he heard, whether crippled and fed through a tube, Or by dropship withdrawn, or on blood-crusted feet: "Kekeke, I am Kor, kekeke, you are noob!"
Leaders cared not a whit if he lived or he died - They'd just macro some more. His importance denied, He had hijacked a dropship to flee far away With his squad and his favorite medic one day.
They had feared a decree from the dread UED That would pay for their heads. In their panic, They had woven a path through galactic debris To a planet most hot and volcanic.
Disembarking on Char, they had wandered aside (Else his fellow marines would for blowjobs implore). Here their romance would blossom, he'd make her his bride, Safe from Zerg, far away from the mocking of Kor.
But not all would be well in their blissful embrace. Blood was pouring all over her beauteous face, Half her torso exploded, and in her demise, Two insatiable broodlings sprang out of her thighs.
He looked upward and noticed the queen, high aloft, Full of rage and of bloodthirsty malice. Stim wouldn't work, and his rifle went flaccid and soft Like a geezer bereft of Cialis.
He was covered by buddies, the broodlings were slain. He was weeping; no prospect of love lay in store. In the meantime, the queen fled to higher terrain As it hissed, "Kekeke, you are noob, I am Kor!"
The Lord’s our shepherd, so they say. But does he herd us for the fleece, Or, rendered happy and obese, We’re doomed upon the feasting-day?
Such blasphemy we mustn’t imply! Still, public stomachs make demands. Perhaps His bishops, round and sly, May surreptitiously supply Hell’s bottomless shawarma stands?
No. Neighbors from their pastures stray; A flock no more, but brutal gangs Advance, to horror and dismay, All clad in predatory gray With rifles tipped with metal fangs.
Alas, tonight is not your night. Your horns provide a poor reprieve. You cannot win, though try you might. Professionals; they live to fight, And fight to eat, and eat to live.
Arranged and crucified by fear, You finally beseech your God: "My shepherd, help!" He does not hear. Perhaps he's busy nursing beer. You stand before the firing squad.
As curtains fall, you feel within The nagging of a dull regret. If you could once again begin, Don wolfen shako, wolfen skin, And hold a wolfish bayonet...
Come hurry, mutton does not keep, So scrape those bodies from the wall, A feast of sheep, by sheep, for sheep, A doner party, food for all.
Translation of "Pozhary" by Vladimir Vysotsky - rough draft
The flames engulf the land - each higher, hotter, full of life! Reflections darting, waltzing, in their revelry persistent. But Fate and Time had mounted on their steeds, intent on strife, And galloped off in metal hail, Ensconcing in a chilling gale All countries, close and distant.
The wicked bullets sped and vehemently scattered, We raced upon our steeds, they followed in our wake. The horses lost their nails, and heated horseshoes flew and clattered To lie in dust to bring good luck for any man to take.
The reins, like slimy eels, were always slipping, And hair and thoughts were tangled as we sped through rough terrain. The wind untangled curls as it was whipping, And straightened convolutions in the brain.
No fear of death, pursuit, nor flames shall bar the victor's way, And Time approached, and Fortune, smiling, with his saber greeted; Their blades were crossed with sunbeams in a luminous array, Two poets, locked in fatal bout! The flames died down and flickered out - But combat grew more heated.
The world had never seen a gallop so frenetic, The hoofbeats set a rhythm as yet unheard before. The bullets, blind and dumb, had grown with bloodlust energetic, Matured and wisened up and aimed and hit their targets more.
And who will falter? Who will make a blunder? And who is faster? Victory will surely grace the bold. The wind our very flesh from bones would sunder, And gratified the skeletons with cold.
What promise does the future hold? The sick shall not be cured. Tomorrow offers nothing but its bitterness and shadow; Time gallops straight ahead, as though its victory's assured. So let us ride and meet the foe, And friends, should fortune thus bestow. Fate flies across the meadow!
That gullible old Death we easily outwitted, It hesitated some and swung its scythe no more. For once, the bullets lagged behind and in the distance flitted... Perhaps we'll have a chance to wash with dew instead of gore?
The breeze sang sadly, hoarsely in its passion. Time's riddled through with bullet-holes, and Fate is racked with pain, And winds and horses carried in procession The souls and bodies of the freshly slain.
The original song starts at 1:25 in the video below.
I wrote the following at four AM, a few hours before it was to be submitted to the prof. Nothing generates inanity like sleep deprivation.
I give thanks to you, strange and ridiculous bird That has perished to nourish the living. Yet these thanks and consumption are somewhat deferred, As a fortnight elapsed since Thanksgiving.
Were I slightly more full, I would frown with disgust: You are dry, and your condiments crusted, But my hunger suggests this reaction's unjust. I am thus only somewhat disgusted.
I've not eaten since morning, my turkey delight, I devour you with great satisfaction, Yet my mind seems to nag me with all of its might Of e. coli and other infection.
Slither down through my smile, though the innards complain, A contentment most vile, an immaculate stain.
The car won the battle after all. I have multiple herniated disks in the lower back, which means awful pain from various mundane activities (running, bending down, direct contact between a hard surface and the lower back, among others). I'm a gimp at the ripe old age of twenty-two.
But life goes on. Physical restrictions only leave more time for writing.
