- Markshire PCs:
A LUMP OF CLAY . . .
Once I was a lump of clay
My home, a Narlynwik field . . .
I’d push up daisies half the day,
Sometimes a frond I’d yield.
I was not lonely in this place,
For friends I had, you see . . .
The gentle breeze, the morning mist,
And close by, a little tree.
On clear days the sun would warm me,
At night in awe I’d stare . . .
At the sparkling dance across the sky,
Of the hunter and the bear.
This peaceful quiet life I led,
Alas, was not to be . . .
For a potter came along one day,
And stuck his spade in me.
To his crafting shop we journeyed,
And trepidation did I feel . . .
My tummy slightly queasy,
When ‘round he spun me on his wheel.
He poked; he prodded, pulled and pinched . . .
And drew me up, he did!
He even stuck an ear on me,
And fashioned me a lid!
He placed me in his oven,
Where I, for hours, stood alone . . .
When he at last, the fire quenched,
I was stiff and hard as stone.
He shipped me off to Dragon Inn,
Now here I spend my days . . .
Sitting high upon a dusty shelf,
My Narlynwik, far away.
There are many here who use me . . .
I know them all by name . . .
‘Nitha, Mez and Durok too,
The ale they drink, the same.
Aels prefers her glogg quite warm . . .
And Spana sips green tea.
Some others never drink at all,
Tis’ those who let me be.
Sun-Ok favors rice wine . . .
With juice of almonds mixed,
Barellgore often grumbles,
That her brew takes long to fix.
The poor lass seems confused at times,
Searching always for the Way . . .
I hope her hunt is fruitful,
And she’ll find it soon, one day.
Kamas has a special brew . . .
Laced with magic, he imbibes,
The liquid dark and icy cold,
It chills me deep inside.
Traudek orders ale,
But dozes off before it sates . . .
He dreams of battles won and lost . . .
Memories gone when he awakes.
It’s Sar, who drinks the most from me,
He, in torment, sits alone . . .
Tortured by some demon,
Deep within, that makes him moan.
It seems I’m with them always,
And all their tales I hear . . .
Sitting hour after hour,
With their fingers in my ear.
A thousand whispers crossed my rim . . .
A thousand lips I’ve kissed . . .
I’m sick of plots and schemes gone bad,
And opportunities they’ve missed.
Into me they shed their tears . . .
And I look close and see,
Pictures each, of shattered hopes . . .
And dreams not meant to be.
I’m most always filled with liquid . . .
Yet I thirst, and cannot drink.
From cloud filled days, I miss the rain,
That into me would sink.
I miss my Narlynwik dear to me . . .
I miss my daisies too.
I’ve thought about this long and hard,
And I know what I’ll do.
When Piedro comes to wipe me clean,
It is his nightly chore . . .
I’ll wiggle hard; he’ll lose his grip . . .
I’ll tumble to the floor!
Into pieces I will shatter,
Unto dust I shall return . . .
‘Tis in the Forrest deep I’ll lay my head,
For me they’ll be no urn.
If the wind is kind, my field I’ll find . . .
It’ll bring me home, and then . . .
Great joy in me, at work I’ll be . . .
Just pushing daisies up again!