The muse has hit me like a vorpal sword.
I’ve been working on some poems for an upcoming comedy performance (called “Funny As a Crutch,” Today, June 13 in Boston) — and it was impossible to resist the temptation to pen some D&D-inspired poems.
For those of you who can’t make it, here’s a sneak peek of some of the material I’ll be reading.
Note to 4th edition D&D players: I’ll be kicking it old school.
|Wizard: “Does the fireball work on girls?”|
Sister takes a peek:
dice, maps, graph paper, B.O.
Lots of teenage trolls.
Shopping list: rope, sack,
chain mail bikini. D &
D or S & M?
Roll the dice. Breathe deep.
Sorry, page 7 says fire-
ball won’t work on girls.
Another tiff. Another row. Another rift.
Predictably, I was sulking in my burrow,
dragging earth with iron claws. Chucking loam.
OK, I was tunneling down, I was deconstructing love,
mulling who knew how to better cook tubers and shrews (me),
whose turn it was to weekend with the other’s in-laws (she).
Why this union was corridor-like, one path, blind.
I reached the end of my passageway, Some unbudgeable rock.
But suddenly, my she-hulk arrived. She removed
her bedroom gloves and cracked her knuckles.
“What about your nails?” I asked. She shrugged
and burrowed beside me.
I paused to I admire her large, bipedal form,
that insectoid aberration, her ape-like build.
Her body a dull black, shading to yellowish gray on her front.
Lovely. Her ivory mandibles. Still ivory.
Twenty years and I still admired her ability to confuse
any creature that sees all four of her eyes.
I still desired her.
“My umber love,” I cooed.
“You’re my knight,” she replied.
We hunkered down. We dug.
We hunted for soft sweet human flesh together.
Hobbits taste good too.
|The Umber Hulk, in love.|
A Rap for Geeky Heroes
Let’s say you’re Harry, Frodo, Leia, or Sam,
Matthew, Mark, Luke or Han,
Or Perseus, Jason, the Tin Man,
Jesus? Kenny of South Park? Another sacrificial lamb.
You’re bored in your corner of the galaxy – Kansas,
Tatooine — raised by Bilbo, nagged by Aunt Beru,
‘cuz your parents, they gone, they ancient history, they been embalmed.
Your mother, probably she was Bambi’s Mom.
You might got some prophecy, scar on your forehead.
Cursed, perchance. Wimpy. Better off dead.
So, our brave hero, you’ll need a mentor to guide you,
someone to edify, inculcate, enlighten your mind.
I’ll teach you Jedi dice tricks, Jedi beer pong tricks,
the chicanery of Cheetos, Doritos, Dew,
how to cast spells like Force Field, Atmospheric Dry Ice,
Glowing Blue Saber (or Sword), How to Be Nice,
How To Hit Armor Class Zero – THACO!
I’ll be with you, beside you, crit your attacks,
you levitate rocks and I’ll be chillin’ piggyback.
You want to hunt for heart, courage, brain-ing?
Now’s the time to remove your +2 Wheels of Training.
I think I’ve prepped you to accept danger unaided,
set out the door, flip down your blast shield,
take the first step unafraid-ed, so launch your path,
level up from hobbits to jawas, pixels to bloodbath,
stop at this tavern, then wear a disguise,
you’ll know thine enemy, he’s the one with red eyes.
Embark on your voyage, your crusade, your trek to a far-away earth,
middle-, high- or low-, you’ll walk and you’ll walk, lose some of that girth,
and finally arrive at your destiny, that one doom, that ironic fate,
that M. Night Shy-a-malan-ding-dong for which you can’t wait.
The final reel twist? No, I am your father.
And Frodo is your step-brother (I boinked our evil step-mother),
who, by the way, had sex with Voldermort.
And Gary Gygax is your father. Got it?
You sigh. Your brow doth furrow. Boo hoo. Your puppy eyes widen.
You ask, ‘What must I do?’ Poo or poo not, I reply. There is no try.
You will take the Ring, to Mordor, or to East Timor.
WTF. Join the Peace Corps. I don’t care what you quest for.
Any damn thing. Just get the flip outta here.