by Adam Latham05 Jan 2018
Far over the mumbling Mountains of Moan
Where blazing hot firebirds are nurtured and flown,
Through silver veined canyons and mines filled with gold
By Dwarves in their halls seeking riches untold.
There lives by the side of a babbling brook,
Buried deep in the earth, in it's own special nook,
Underneath a quite small yet conspicuous knoll,
Hidden from prying eyes is the home of a Troll.
Alone in his cavern of amethyst ore
He sleeps undisturbed with a grunt and a snore,
And makes the ground tremble with dream induced growls
That fly up with spit from his thick flapping jowls.
The floor all around is a sea of gnawed bones
Stained pink by the light from those crystalline stones,
That shimmer and sparkle like miniature storms
Left raging for eons in mineral forms.
His slow beating heart sounds a deep thumping boom
That scythes through the half light and twinkling gloom,
By which, if you look in the cold that persists,
The Troll's heavy breath funnels up into mists.
A great iron club with its spots of rust red
Stands upright and ready close by to his bed,
The Troll's hairy fingers draped over his prize
To snatch at the hilt should the instant arise.
One beady eye open, the other shut fast,
Only the foolhardy would dare to creep past,
Wake him at your peril, no need to surmise,
You will meet a brutal and violent demise.
A wrinkled behemoth with rings through his nose,
The truth of his origin, nobody knows,
Some say Trolls were spawned at the dawn of the world
When primeval magics and such swished and swirled.
While others less fanciful look to the west
Where dark Elvish wizards in black arts invest,
The wrong incantation performed on a man
Is rumoured to be how the Troll race began.