Among the sweetgum balls, acorns,
crinkly leaves and pine needles
are muddy footprints,
deep and dragon-made.
There, the tree sap smells like cinnamon;
squirrels scurry in those knobby boughs of gold
and ignore oaken monotone requests to stop.
Some respond with mocking laughter through
bulbous cheeks and end up choking. The trees
simply sigh a chilly breeze of resignation.
Tiny grumpy men in pointy red hats live
in burrows wide as pumpkins, by the road
where mounted phantom knights roam around.
Cracking jokes on horseback,
they look to talk to anyone within sight. Ah, our fellow gnomes are out and about. Hello! Hel- hello good sir! Excuse me! Sir! How does your morning fare? Excu...
The burrow-dwellers waddle on with
no patience for talk as small as their
furniture they'd stub their toes on.
A couple furlongs from those woods,
bipedal shepherd dogs in overalls who raise
livestock and tend farms, would ask
their scarecrows how they're holding up
and feed them cool leftover okra stew—made
with everything they've sown beneath the sun
and a never-setting harvest moon.
East of Lake Honeygill,
stars stumbled drunk and fell upon
the overlooking ochre peaks guffawing
where giants guzzle kegs of mead,
in taverns booming with the belting-out
about the Early Winged Shadow, Malgok
being slain by Polimon the Pillar.
I was in my room, drawing pictures of you.
From my desk, throughout the sun's ascent,
I heard a buzzing noise that sounded like
a lawnmower cutting grass.
Edit 4: Sailing to Tawnydale
Among the sweetgum balls, acorns,
crinkly leaves and pine needles
are muddy footprints,
deep and dragon-made.
There, the tree sap smells like cinnamon;
squirrels scuttle within knobby boughs gold
and ignore oaken monotone requests to stop.
Some respond with mocking laughter through
bulbous cheeks and end up choking. The trees
simply sigh a resigned chilly breeze.
Tiny grumpy men in pointy red hats live
in burrows wide as pumpkins, by the road
where mounted phantom knights roam around.
Cracking jokes on horseback,
they look to talk to anyone within sight. Ah, our fellow gnomes are out and about. Hello! Hel- hello good sir! Excuse me! Sir! How does your morning fare? Excu...
The burrow-dwellers waddle on with
no patience for talk as small as their
chairs they'd stub their toes on.
Couple furlongs from those woods,
bipedal shepherd dogs in overalls who raise
livestock and tend farms, would ask
their scarecrows how they're holding up
and feed them cool leftover okra stew—
made with everything sown beneath the sun
and a never-setting harvest moon.
East of Lake Honeygill,
stars stumbled drunk and fell upon
the overlooking ochre mountains laughing
where the giants drink their kegs of mead,
in taverns booming with the night's festivities.
I was in my room, drawing pictures of you.
From my desk, throughout the sun's ascent,
I heard the buzzing noise that sounded like
a lawnmower cutting grass.
Edit 3: Sailing to Tawnydale
Sweetgum balls, acorns, crinkly
leaves and pine needles are scattered
in shapes of
dragon footprints.
There, the tree sap smells like cinnamon;
squirrels scurry across knobby boughs of gold
and ignore oaken monotone requests to stop.
Some respond with laughter through
bulbous cheeks to end up choking.
The trees just sigh into the breeze.
Tiny grumpy men in pointy red hats hop
in and out burrows big as pumpkins, by the road
where mounted phantom knights roam around.
Cracking jokes on horseback, they look
to talk to anything within sight. Ah, our fellow gnomes are out and about. Hello! Hel- hello good sir! Excuse me! Sir! How does your morning fare? Excu...
The burrow-dwellers waddle on, indifferent.
About a mile from those woods,
bipedal shepherd dogs in overalls who raise
livestock and tend farms, would ask
their scarecrows how they're holding up
and feed them cool leftover okra stew—
made with everything sown beneath the sun
and a never-setting harvest moon.
It seemed the stars stumbled drunk from the sky
and fell upon those ochre mountains laughing
where the giants drink their kegs of mead,
in taverns booming with the night's festivities.
I was in my room,
drawing pictures of you. From my desk,
throughout the sun's ascent, I heard
the buzzing noise that sounded like
a lawnmower cutting grass.
[pre verse]
Edit 2: Sailing to Tawnydale
Among the clutter of sweetgum balls,
pine needles, leaves, and acorns are
a dragon's footprints.
Here, the tree sap smells like cinnamon;
squirrels scurry across twisted boughs of gold,
ignoring monotone requests from trees to stop.
Some respond in laughter through their cheeks,
plump as grapes; at times they end up choking.
The trees just sigh into the breeze.
Tiny grumpy men in pointy red hats hop
in and out of burrows big as pumpkins; they
seldom talk with anyone. That changes when
bands of mounted phantom knights who travel
roads, love to joke, and laugh like someone
with a stomach or any organ really, tries to make
conversation with those tiny burrow-dwellers
till they become annoyed.
Bipedal shepherd dogs in overalls who raise
livestock and tend farms, occasionally ask
their scarecrows how they're holding up
and would hand them cool leftover okra stew—
made with everything reaped beneath the sun
and a never-setting harvest moon.
Where the stars stumbled drunk from the sky
and fell upon those ochre mountains laughing,
is where the giants drink their kegs of mead,
in taverns booming full of song and laughter.
I was in my room,
sketching all about you. From my desk,
throughout the sun's climb, I heard
the buzzing noise that sounded like
a lawnmower cutting grass.
Edit 1: Sailing to Tawnydale
Sweetgum balls, acorns, leaves,
and pine needles are scattered
in sets of
dragon footprints.
Here, tree sap smells like cinnamon;
squirrels scurry across twisted boughs of gold,
ignoring monotone requests from trees to stop.
Some respond in laughter through their cheeks,
plump as grapes; at times they end up choking.
The trees just sigh into the breeze.
Tiny grumpy men in pointy red hats hop
in and out of burrows big as pumpkins; they
seldom talk with anyone. That changes when
bands of mounted phantom knights who travel
roads, love to joke, and laugh like someone
with a stomach or any organ really, tries to make
conversation with those tiny burrow-dwellers
till they become annoyed.
Bipedal shepherd dogs in overalls who raise
livestock and tend farms, occasionally ask
their scarecrows' how they're holding up
and would hand them cool leftover okra stew—
made with everything reaped beneath the sun
and a never-setting harvest moon.
Where the stars stumbled drunk from the sky
and fell upon those ochre mountains laughing,
is where the giants drink their kegs of mead,
in taverns booming full of song and laughter.
I was in my room,
sketching all about you. From my desk,
throughout the sun's climb, I heard
the buzzing noise that sounded like
a lawnmower cutting grass.
Original: Sailing to Tawnydale
Sweetgum balls, acorns, leaves, and pine needles are scattered in the shapes of dragon footprints. Tree sap aromas fill the air like cinnamon. Squirrels scamper twisted boughs of gold ignoring monotone requests from trees to stop. Some respond in laughter through their cheeks, plump as grapes, at times to end up choking. The trees just sigh into the breeze. Tiny grumpy men in pointy red hats hop in and out of burrows big as pumpkins, who rarely talk with anyone except for when they're talked to by bands of mounted knights, who travel roads, and crack jokes that echo in their armor, followed by laughs that belong to someone with a stomach or any organ, for that matter. Bipedal shepherd dogs, who raise livestock and tend farms, occasionally ask their scarecrows' how they're holding up, and would hand them cool leftover okra stew— made with everything reaped beneath the sun and a never-setting harvest moon.
Where the stars stumbled drunk from the sky and fell upon those ochre mountains laughing, is where the giants drink their kegs of mead, in taverns booming full of song and laughter. I was in my room, sketching all about you. At my desk, throughout the sun's climb, I heard the buzzing noise that sounded like a lawnmower cutting grass.
