Final Call – By Kibbolt

A Mage Hunter poem about dwarven booze

Dwarven bars are no place for a halfling.
Alas, a thirst must be quenched.
Not to say ill of their kind,
but their drinks will make you sick.

I wondered around a hundred bars, all completely full.
A lesson I have learned,
as my liver was left sore.

A rowdy bunch, but fine folk they were.
Gallons of booze, tongues never slur.
A mountain wrapped around the neck,
stink of coal and copper.
He brought me to the bar that night,
my gut felt quite sour.

He raised a mug and he shouted to me,
“Rocks and stones may break your bones,
but booze will never hurt ye!”

“The Final Call” they call it, a pint of foamy brew.
A beautiful mug holding its draft, only an artist could drew.
Pressured amount by the stout men, I was surely screwed.

It slipped into my mouth in a fiery gulp,
my throat was surely burning.
The booze and spice, I needed ice!
The pain was surely swelling.

I woke up, hung over the bar in a daze.
My memory was left a-haze.
I just wanted to laze
away this pounding headache.
Just one drink ruined my night,
these damned dwarves gave me a freight.
This halfling body does not have the might,
to fight,
this bastard ale.

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