Post by Trinea on Oct 10, 2010 9:03:10 GMT -5
Anu th'en duriel,
Del Thelana mal
Quel ithnilon. Dar eth'elnath
Fal'dirion, sul emenil a'nar.
I glide across the cobblestones,
moving through the crowded streets; alone.
Myes, that's a good start.
As night does rise
I open my eyes
To see smoky tendrils reach
Down unto the chimneys.
Hmm... I'm going to make it rhyme again.
And in every abode
The fireplace the families' load
Wait a minute. Hmm... Ah! This will go well in there! Captain Kreuzen's account of the Journey to Kalimdor.
"From the trees! The trees!
We stand no chance!
Let your axes dance"
from door to door, le--
No. No need for the axes. I suppose the quote will have done sufficient good for the poem without keeping much context. Anyone sufficiently read will catch it anyway.
"I glide across the cobblestones,
moving through the crowded streets; alone.
As night does rise
I open my eyes
To see smoky tendrils reach
Down unto the chimneys.
And in every abode
The fireplace the families' load
"From the trees! The trees!
We stand no chance"
As we wade along through happenstance.
I wonder, wander, and ponder
My path,
Should I make it rhyme again? Hmm. Ah, pish posh.
I wonder, wander, and ponder my path,
There we go! Hmm, here's a good time to reference Brother Brok's letter to the Archbishop.
I wonder, wander, and ponder my path,
Urged to pause in my walk, I wonder still.
Do my actions cause them ill?
Is there any gain in bringing
Can't say pain. They'd be expecting that. Time now to make use of the Logopoeian connection made by the common, hackneyed cliche, "No pain, no gain". They'll all be blushing with the realization that they are but unlearnt tools in my hands.
I wonder, wander, and ponder my path,
Urged to pause in my walk, I wonder still.
Do my actions cause them ill?
Is there any gain in bringing suffering?
This is turning out well. Now, I need to think of a good Titan to throw into this. Sargeras is overdone by all the plebeian scribblers. I'll have to--
And then, as fate would have it, Eliot T. Sullensdale's pen did discharge a dot of ink. A dot that hung perilously over his work, lingering in the air just as the vacuum lingered in his unwilling lungs. The poet did not take another breath until he was gasping in outrage; the rogue blot had butchered that brilliance that he had birthed.
Face red with boiling blood. Veins bulging in his neck. Sweat beading on his thin-haired head. Teeth clenching, grinding, already rotten from the sugar spooned into so many cups of coffee and tea taken alone. Sullen emptiness, quiet indecision, and unspoken smugness all died within his breast.
As lupine lips grew from his new maw, so flew a thousand roaring profanities; a torrent of distaste as brilliance gave way to beast. Pale, delicate hands were shorn apart by ripping claws. Smashing, bashing, dashing did they go, every word on his paper left unintact.
And so was the afternoon done, as Sullensdale cursed his life, cursed his work, and cursed in common uncouth tongue.
Del Thelana mal
Quel ithnilon. Dar eth'elnath
Fal'dirion, sul emenil a'nar.
I glide across the cobblestones,
moving through the crowded streets; alone.
Myes, that's a good start.
As night does rise
I open my eyes
To see smoky tendrils reach
Down unto the chimneys.
Hmm... I'm going to make it rhyme again.
And in every abode
The fireplace the families' load
Wait a minute. Hmm... Ah! This will go well in there! Captain Kreuzen's account of the Journey to Kalimdor.
"From the trees! The trees!
We stand no chance!
Let your axes dance"
from door to door, le--
No. No need for the axes. I suppose the quote will have done sufficient good for the poem without keeping much context. Anyone sufficiently read will catch it anyway.
"I glide across the cobblestones,
moving through the crowded streets; alone.
As night does rise
I open my eyes
To see smoky tendrils reach
Down unto the chimneys.
And in every abode
The fireplace the families' load
"From the trees! The trees!
We stand no chance"
As we wade along through happenstance.
I wonder, wander, and ponder
My path,
Should I make it rhyme again? Hmm. Ah, pish posh.
I wonder, wander, and ponder my path,
There we go! Hmm, here's a good time to reference Brother Brok's letter to the Archbishop.
I wonder, wander, and ponder my path,
Urged to pause in my walk, I wonder still.
Do my actions cause them ill?
Is there any gain in bringing
Can't say pain. They'd be expecting that. Time now to make use of the Logopoeian connection made by the common, hackneyed cliche, "No pain, no gain". They'll all be blushing with the realization that they are but unlearnt tools in my hands.
I wonder, wander, and ponder my path,
Urged to pause in my walk, I wonder still.
Do my actions cause them ill?
Is there any gain in bringing suffering?
This is turning out well. Now, I need to think of a good Titan to throw into this. Sargeras is overdone by all the plebeian scribblers. I'll have to--
And then, as fate would have it, Eliot T. Sullensdale's pen did discharge a dot of ink. A dot that hung perilously over his work, lingering in the air just as the vacuum lingered in his unwilling lungs. The poet did not take another breath until he was gasping in outrage; the rogue blot had butchered that brilliance that he had birthed.
Face red with boiling blood. Veins bulging in his neck. Sweat beading on his thin-haired head. Teeth clenching, grinding, already rotten from the sugar spooned into so many cups of coffee and tea taken alone. Sullen emptiness, quiet indecision, and unspoken smugness all died within his breast.
As lupine lips grew from his new maw, so flew a thousand roaring profanities; a torrent of distaste as brilliance gave way to beast. Pale, delicate hands were shorn apart by ripping claws. Smashing, bashing, dashing did they go, every word on his paper left unintact.
And so was the afternoon done, as Sullensdale cursed his life, cursed his work, and cursed in common uncouth tongue.
