I
Muse! Get off of your overrated ass,
And grant thine divine inspiration, for
My tale is worse than any other to pass.
Not of knights and ladies! Nor love and war!
But of a drunken, shiftless peasant named Boor.
His armor is cowardice, his sword sloth,
His skin bleaches white at the sight of gore
And his sad hide has never kept an oath.
Muse, give me the strength to make his tale a prize,
Or at least something good to plagiarize!

II
The legend, if you dare to call it such
Begins in a village Boor could not spell,
Nor upon a map have his finger touch.
Naked he awakened in a dry well
Thinking only of a headache from hell.
Recalling nothing of the night before
He knew not what to do, nor how he fell.
He screeched for help, twas not long before
Atop the well stood a man of great age
Waving a pitchfork and in a great rage

III
“Knave! Defiler! Third insult!” he shouted
As he raised his rusty tool for a throw.
“Holy fucking shit!” our grand hero said.
Begging for dear life Boor brought his head low
“Before being killed, I deserve to know,
If Sir pitchfork wielder would be so kind.
Just exactly why, and where are my clothes?!”
Powered by hate, the farmer’s teeth did grind
As he spoke. “You stole my daughters honor!
Thus shamed she’s run far from our safe manor!”

IV
Mind fueled by a strong desire to not die
Boor then put his mind’s single gear to work
And concieved an almost believable lie.
“It was not me, but the foul bandit Merk!
I tried to stop him, but he went berserk,
And carried fair…umm…your daughter…to his camp.”
Desperate, logic the farmer did shirk
For his brain was much like an oilless lamp.
“Worry not, for I intend to give chase,
So find me some clothes. Go on now, make haste!”

V
Charged with his fake quest, Boor made his escape.
As the yokel lowered a hempen rope,
Boor grinned at the success of his cruel jape.
After rescuing his daughter’s faux hope
The father recalled an old story trope.
“You will need a weapon. Take my pitchfork.”
For words to describe this folly I grope.
Thus Boor fled with the honor of an orc.
Unaware that by the will of the fates
Against his foul will, adventure awaits.

3/1/2010
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