All gather ’round, and hear the proud tale,
bleak lands to cross in scale all-attired:
Calamyr, son of the proud Iron Host
does this day sound his horn and ride for empire.
Entrenched in their holes, the goblins gave arrow
foul poison bit true through the Iron Host mail;
gallant Sir Calamyr slowed his horse not,
his enemies set fast their spears to impale.
In rode Sir Calamyr, bold as the sun,
jauntily cleaving the spears from their stocks
killing a goblin each swing of his blade,
laying low legions of goblins to gawk.
Many fell faster than grain at the harvest
no friend of goblins was found that day
only one did he spare to warn off all others, but
poison was steadily eating away.
Quickly his strength began fading from limb,
rescue was folly so deep in the fen
so wrote he a letter in charcoal with haste
that others might tell of his deeds among men.
Under the shade of a great cypress tree,
valiant Sir Calamyr languished away
while sneakily goblins approached the fell sight,
xenophobia was the Iron Host’s lesson for them.
Your story, thus told, comes of no empire:
Zedrax, the goblin, tells it now in the mire.
This poem was written for the daily prompt challenge A to Z.
Extra aside: I really thought I had published this, but it appears that didn’t happen. Better late than never.