Matcon 17 Fun

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From Bill As the competition for Matcon Poet Laureate heats up, there is not much room left at the bottom, but I thought I would give it a try.

What eats bananas,
And swings on vines,
U-gene will be there
if he's got time.

From Neil Well, if you want it to rhyme, it should be:

What eats bananas,
And swings on vines,
U-gene will be there
if he's got tines.

But, what would U-Gene be doing with "tines"? Does he have them or not? And why does he need more than one?

From Tim My reply...

The mighty gnome once journeyed
'ere Falstaff was a babe,
Slaying evil creatures
The world for to save.

When Falstaff was a tiny tot
with diapers still all soiled
Hylax cast his awesome spells
And for King Greg'ry toiled.

And soon to adolescence
Our Falstaff he did grow
His face was ripe with pimples
While demons Hylax mowed.

As young adult our Falstaff blossom'd
A dainty little flow'r
With Elven Stones he liked to play
He had so little pow'r.

One fateful year with luck most bad
U-gene and Rax and were gone
And finally Falstaff came of age
A tourney he had won

And so to Matcon Oh-One-Seven
Falstaff came a whinin'
Thinkin' he was quite a poet
With two words that were rhymin'.

Now Falstaff is a man full grown
His powers at a peak
Yet still he sits and learns his role
At mighty gnomish feet.


ALTERNATIVE ENDING (not as elegant):
Among the Party's shouts of joy
When the Master they did see
Falstaff turned to babe again
And in his pants did pee.

From Neil

Do you know the sad feeling you get when a great master, far past his peak, falls back on past glory, clinging to the echo of cheers of admirers who have turned their attention to new heroes? Like when the aging Monet painted the same water lily over, and over again? Or when Frank Sinatra sings the one-millionth reprise of New York, New York? Or when Robert Ludlum retreads the same plot and the same characters and tries to pass it off as a new story? The meter and rhyme of "The Mighty Gnome Once Journeyed ...", like the music and lyrics of "Stairway to Heaven", have become a monotonous cacophony of banal drudgery. It and its author are from a past age, fading from memory and relevance. Perhaps someday, when their meaning is forgotten, learned researchers will find their words intriguing, akin to primitive cave paintings, and try to fathom their meaning. But for now, it is an new era. Long reign the Champ!

Seriously, however, I am glad that Tim will once again be at MatCon to attempt to regain his title. I would point out however, that this is not my first MatCon championship. In fact, I have won 2 of the last 3 titles, including years when the little Gnome was not too afraid to attend.

Respectfully submitted, Falstaff T. Druid Team Physician for the Dwarf

He's known as Hylax,
From the Abbey of Wax,
His beans they should tax,
But the DM is lax.
And the monsters relax,
For he swings not U-Gene's ax.

They call him by T-Mat,
He carries no big bat,
A wee pointed hat,
Marks where he's found at,
Though his spell book is fat,
His war cry is "drat!".

His name it is Tim,
Hit points are grim,
He morphs on a whim,
And competes with great vim,
But his chances are slim,
And his outlook is dim.

From Neil For those who prefer a monotonous cacophony of banal drudgery, here is another entry:

The mighty gnome once journeyed,
Out of his sloven cave,
Ranting about his stature,
His pride for to save.

When Hylax was a tiny tot,
(not that he's bigger now),
He lived one day, the rest did not,
By staying home, that's how.

And then in adolescence,
He sought ill-gotten power,
Became the bride of Rhinewood,
Whose runes were its dower'.

As young adult our Hylax ruled,
Most feared in all the land,
He stood behind the true heroes,
His fleshy wall did stand.

One fateful year with luck most bad,
His courage it did fail,
He missed the tourney he claimed to own,
From rivals he did quail.

And so to Matcon Oh-One-Seven,
Hylax came a moanin',
Could he fill the Chalice up,
Without the beer a foamin'?

Now Hylax is coming home,
His title to regain,
We shall see who triumphs now,
His attempt shall be in vain.

From Neil So, it looks like U-gene pretty much has the low-ball Poet Laureate contest locked up, and Hylax and Falstaff are now doing their best to go high. In an attempt to avoiding splitting the pot, and with the proper hesitation that would accompany any dwarf's attempt to enter so feminine a contest as a poetic one, here is another entry:

The mighty gnome once journeyed
And druid with his harp
Their pen and parchment busy
My gosh these quills are sharp!

With talk of spills and foamin' beer
The chalice they aimed for.
The year the chalice was brand new
They both had learned to pour.

Their ears they were both pointed,
Pen safely tucked behind
No time they had for battle
We have to sit and rhyme.

No moments rest for these two
a bendin' pointed ear
Lots o' time for girlish games
A bringin' up the rear.

Don't draw the wrong conclusions
They both were well armed queens
But blades they did not carry
Such awful bloody things.

With Falstaff when things heated up
The Elven stones were groped
This was the best that he could do
No intern as he'd hoped.

The gnomish one was also armed
With staff, and rod and spell
With Ms. O'Barker on the lam
The rod he knew quite well.

But battle did not matter so
With other ways to score
Puzzles, poems, and silly things
May bring us to the fore.

What's this? U-gene a poet too?
Perhaps it is too late
Let's begin anew the boastin'
For Matcon Oh-One-Eight.

From Bill

The mighty gnome was silent
From druid not a word
What's this? U-gene a poet?
I think that's what we heard.

Why he's a short uncultured brute
And nothing but a hack
But caution seized the gnomish one
Think first and then will act.

The druid too had no reply
for dwarves can anger fast
Whatever rhyme we answer with
may surely be our last.

From Bill

The mighty gnome had vanished
His druid sidekick too
No silly sounds of banter
Where are those ryhmin' two?

Battle fought and monsters dead
The party takes a rest
The rhymin' two gone missing
Not equal to the test?

No "Hail o Great and Mighty"
No witty ryhmin' sound
We'll have to do our best to see
That ryhmin' duo found.

Call to arms, the party off
The search begins with speed
A search for boasting poets
A search for friends in need.

The rescue soon successful
The ryhmin' duo found
What could cause this cowardice?
Why this whimpering sound?

Tear in eye, the story told
They'd lost their magic pen
"Without it we are useless
We'll never rhyme again."

One battle fought, It's back to town
I think thats S.O.P.
It's just not safe to carry on
with wads of beans so wee.

The rhymin' two back safe in town
New rhymin' pens in hand
U-gene awaits an answer
Best poets in the land?

From Bill "Scoreboard." 'Nuf said.

From Neil

Out of the Mist that covers me,
Heavy as a blanket from pole to pole,
I hear the writings of my subjects,
Musings on a scroll.

Tap, cast, write,
Clamoring for a position on the King's right,
These men of beans and might.

The Mist refuses to yield,
It maintains its' icy hold,
Can it ever be lifted,
Only by the One - if He chooses to be bold.

Tap, cast, fireball,
The wizard, druid, and dwarf, pretenders all,
Born after the World's false fall.

His choice - arbitrary and insane,
Forces existence on this pretenders plane.
One last plea to the one who call himself God,
Allow us once more the True World on which to trod.

Tap, cast, Nevinyrral's Disk,
Fifteen years of opportunity missed,
For the Real Ones lost in the Mist.

I prefer existence as Sir Brian who defeats all contenders,
Els Ernie King of the pretenders,
I choose to wail upon the one with spine of macaroni,
I choose to beat and bludgeon Arthur Bucheroni.

So one last plea to the one who calls himself God,
Allow us once more the True World on which to trod,
Return us home over the vaporous sea,
Open your eyes, tap, cast, be free.

P.S. - Wads of beans so wee????

From Alan

Once upon a MatCon bleary,
While he ponders weak and weary,
Over many a paper of the daily news.

There's heard a sound, a gentle tapping,
Perhaps a more insistent rapping,
To stir or not, tis clear he now must choose.

And now a word, a sharp retort,
A familiar voice, it calls "Fuzzwort",
"Wake up Bob, your skill we now must use."

Never Lose!

The gnome, it seems, is out of beans,
While fighters clearly lack the means,
And of the dungeon, they have not many clues.

The fighters did their sabres rattle,
O're hasty, they plunged into battle,
And now they must retreat or sing the blues.

And so to Fuzzwort did they call,
The greatest roller of them all,
To cast the die, else the party pay its dues.

Never Lose!

The cleric roused his idle bones,
Cast the chit, by skill he hones,
The six showed up, of course, he cannot lose.

And Lo!, initiative was gained,
The party fled, and were not slain,
They escaped with some scratches and many a bruise.

The master smiles, his craft is strong,
The DM grumbles that something's wrong,
But no one can pierce that age old ruse.

Never Lose!