The Tavern

The Tavern

Far west beyond the Valley of Gloom
Lies the Tavern of Motley Fright,
Frequented by gnomes and dwarves and crones
And mages in need of a bite.

The cook presides over bubbling cauldrons,
The barkeep is an ogre with one eye.
He keeps order—such as it is—
With a single, thunderous ‘Fie!’

The serving-lads move sharp and slick
Having limbs twice the usual number,
Only trouble is that when they fight
None can separate one from the other.

The cook’s boy is subject to the mages’ scrutiny,
They watch his each and every move.
If he’s hale, they’ll stay for a bite and an ale,
If he’s sickly, they’ll leave—forsooth!

There’s music to be had come eventide
When the light from the north fades away;
The lutist strumming in her corner
Will warble till dawn the next day.

She sweeps her claws over the strings,
She dips both her heads as she sways,
Till the tune’s fall and rise, fair and eerie,
Takes your breath and your spirit away.

Away to the hills beyond the Pale Valley,
Away to the Mountains Beyond,
Where mysterious creatures called ‘humans’
Live and die and are born.

But here at the tavern one frequents,
Here, beyond the Valley of Gloom,
Familiar comforts are still to be had;
For one of us, dear, there’s always room.