THE TALE OF THE SLOG

And now I present, without further ado,

A lachrymose yarn and ominous mood

Wrought in the grimes and gour of Grogh

The scribe softly scribbled The Tale of the Slog.

‘Twas bedfast and sloth as Govvel decreed,

“Come hither high timbers or slithering feet,

Volatile Troggs, or poisonous fog

I’ll not lose my way in this vacuous bog.”

But the fog it did grow and frightened he became

For at night this known as the SlogRat’s domain.

A sinking inkling arose in the man’s mind

“Wandering out here, one’s not sure what he’ll find

The SlogRat was vile, voracious, perverse

A vermial vagrant, a villain, or worse

He’d gouge out your eyes and boil them for stock

Or rip off your scalp for a wig of your locks

He’d muddle your insides and gripple your nose

Gargle your ears and brine your toes

Ventricles, capillaries, veins all mangled 

Muscles, bones, and cartilage tangled.”

These thoughts and more scrambled through the man’s brain

And when he first saw the SlogRat he was sure he’d be slain

With a frundulous leap and snarly gnash 

The SlogRat pounced, darted, and slashed

A loathsome quarrel ensued.

After 43 days they had stymied the spat 

Govvel was wounded, but dead was the rat

In the morn he returned to his home in the Grogh

And He sat down to dictate The Tale of the Slog

ca. 10,000 CE (Cursed Era)
Orngath, Scribe to Govvel the Gross