T’was the fight before Christmas

Dalai Lama

Diabloii.Net Member
T’was the fight before Christmas

T’was the fight before Christmas,
And my poor little mouse,
Was kept in a flurry,
By this Nog sodden souse.

The Butcher was waiting,
Alone in his lair,
We’d deal with him later,
For the Helm of Sprits there.

The potions were nestled,
All snug in my belt,
For bloodstars from Succubi,
Soon to be dealt.

The Rogue with her Windforce,
And I, Thinking Cap,
Had just ventured down,
That long crimson crack.

When out by the cows,
There arose such a clatter,
We town portaled up,
To check out the matter.

The Dark Mage were there,
Using their flash,
Along with Blood Knights,
Led by Sir Gorash.

The moo from the last,
Of the three fallen cow,
Begged us to slay,
These demons somehow.

When what to this Horadim’s,
eyes should appear,
But Daisy, and Bessy,
and eight angry steer.

With a tattered old farmer,
So wobbly and sick
I knew it was Farnham,
From his stuttering *hic*

They moseyed and ambled,
His bovine they came,
He hiccuped and shouted,
And slurred out their names

Now Meathead, now Ru-Cow,
Now Bull Gates and Auroch,
On Rude Ox, on Moopac,
On Sir Loin and War Ox

To the top of the field,
To the aid of the kine,
Now go away,
far away,
and I’ll soak my mind.

As Salt licks that under
Tongue lashings will melt,
They took their sweet time,
Crossing the veldt.

So up to the corner,
The steer lords soon grazed,
No longer content,
horns sharpened and raised.

Then with a shimmer,
A flash and a poof,
I saw them all vanish,
From their tail to their hoof.

As I drew back in awe,
And was turning around,
They soon reappeared,
With a thundering sound.

They were each clad in plate,
From their neck to their tail
Except the winged heifers,
Who wore spotted mail.

A thicket of horns,
Each had on its back
They mooed out in rage
Then closed to attack

Their hooves tipped with razors,
Their longhorns from Faerie,
The flames from their noses,
Were red hot and scary.

The Rogue knocked an arrow,
And drew back her bow,
I readied stone curse,
For a figurine show.

Sir Gorash the knight,
Slashed his sword at the beef,
Gold shields now encircled,
I and the thief.

Volleys of arrows,
Soon peppered said fellow,
While I hurled lit spheres
Of gasoline Jell-O

The dark mage they phased,
All over the fray,
But their spells were no match,
For the eaters of hay.

A flick of their tail,
A twist of their horns,
The telekine bade,
Their foes to the Norns.

The winged heifers then flew
All over the battle,
With a bloodcurdling moo
These flame breathing cattle-

toasted and roasted,
flambéed and fried,
their foes fell in droves,
so quickly they died!

The last of the demons,
Left to remain,
A statue of Gorash,
His sword raised in vain.

Sir Gorash now roared,
And vanished in flame,
Stone curse and arrows,
Had shattered his frame.

Daisy stepped on his neck,
To make sure he stayed dead,
Then opened a portal,
Of green, gold and red.

She rezzed the town cows,
Dropped a scroll made of straw
As the herd passed,
Through that shimmering maw,

I heard her voice from the portal,
And as it vanished from sight,
“Merry Christmas to all,
And to all a good fight.â€