I watched as you walked into the Whip.
Ebony long legs and shapely hip.
But Freya, you gave me a surprise,
when you pointed your longsword between my eyes.
You still say that you accidentally lost your grip.

I may be a stalwart wizard,
I may be able to fight.
I may even know my wrong from my right.
But all anyone ever sees,
is a half-orc on his knees,
they revel, and they dance to see my plight.

Morty could heal my wound or so he said,
But every time I asked him he was dead.
Freya was forgotten when I met Fleece,
although kissing elves feels feels like gargling bacon grease.
I guess I'd rather pound nails with my forehead.

I may be a stalwart wizard,
I may be more than brawn.
I may even think Bunker's brains are gone.
But all anyone's ever known,
is a half-orc, all alone.
Maybe halfling lungs really don't make good cologne.

Martin is a source of dread,
with squirrels he paints trees red.
And Bunker, who thinks he's superior,
someday my sword will see your interior.
Unless I can make Fleece hate you more instead.

I may be a stalwart wizard,
I may be getting mad.
I may be about to redefine the word bad.
My friends are humans, elf, and a troll,
being their half-orc, is my role,
and together we all make the mighty HOLE!

See also:
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