One More Round of Rum

by Nick Gisburne

---

The Barbarous Brigade of Buccaneers
Has pencilled in a winter’s Friday night
For rum and grog and strange, exotic beers.
It’s on: the salty shanties, and the fight.
A dozen crabby pirates, past their best,
Assemble, brains bewildered, blind with booze,
To dance around a dead man’s treasure chest,
Resplendent in their ludicrous tattoos.
Perhaps a smidge too strenuous for some,
The has-been heroes falter on their feet,
But all it takes is one more round of rum
For every soul to stagger down the street.
    Ask any, “Will you come?” However far,
    However old, they answer, always, “Arrrrr!”

The Hungry Dragon

by Nick Gisburne

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There dwelled a dragon with a crooked tail
Who roamed the rocky cliffs of County Cork
He fished for mermaids, all to no avail
And stared in helpless hunger at his fork
A brother dragon, half the height of he
Declared his expectations were too high
“You cannot catch as many maids as me
So why not give the English half a try?”
He scrubbed his scales and swam the sea to Bude
A journey too traumatic for his wings
The English as a race were rather rude
But crispy, crunchy, tasty little things
    For seven years he lived to feast and gorge
    Until he met the Dark Destroyer... Dennis

Imelda, Queen of the Bite

by Nick Gisburne

---

Giants compete for a glittering prize
Hissing contempt for the villains they fight
Into the audience, deep in disguise
Shuffles Imelda, the Queen of the Bite
Spitting vulgarities, hurling disdain
Gripped by the curious laws of the ring
Far from the tedious rules of her reign
Bellowing bloody abuse as they swing
Always the muscles, the bodies, arouse
Whistles and amorous offers, obscene
Lost in a promise to shatter her vows
Just for the chance to forget she is Queen
    Restless for wrestlers, she quakes at the knee
    Gods, in their twenties, and she, eighty-three

A Rotten Band of Bones

by Nick Gisburne

---

Towards the crusty turrets of the town
A trio of marauders makes its way
Their colour scheme leans badly to the brown
A rotten band of bones and dank decay
They come to find the Master of the school
To make amends for pigs they tried to thieve
To right a wrong, a raider’s golden rule
Which none of them remember or believe
The school has seen unfathomable change
The Master bears the burden on his stump
A living carcass, smeared with mud and mange
His cherished classrooms now a dingy dump
    The creaking brigands share the Master’s shame
    Then wonder where they are, or why they came

Walter the Warlock

by Nick Gisburne

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Last of an infamous sorcerer line
Proud in the purple of wizards and kings
Scholar of spellwork to slay the divine
Drainer of demons, and sometimes he sings
Walter’s a wonder at working a spell
Mixes elixirs with nauseous names
Three of his wives were eternals from Hell
All of their children just burst into flames
Watch as he braces to battle the gods
Summons a salvo of furious force
Spies his opponents and ponders the odds
Greeks he can do, but don’t fuck with the Norse
    Sundays, when gods are too lazy to fight
    Waxes his wand till his whiskers turn white

Tina, The Wobblier Princess

by Nick Gisburne

---

She breaks their balls in battle, it’s her way
The pagan princess, Tina, reigns supreme
And when she’s high on sugar, so they say
She’ll fight until the cakes run out of cream
Her dragon armour shows a lot of skin
But touch it and she’ll rip your face in two
She staggers round the tavern, drinking gin
Her diva dreams are faded, failed, and few
She worries that her fists won’t pack a punch
And what will fall out first if she should trip
She longs to find a sea of skulls to crunch
Her arms can snap the biggest battleship
    She’s cranky and she’s old, but not quite dead
    She’ll fight you, but she’d rather stay in bed

Derek (Award Winning Hero)

by Nick Gisburne

---

He lunges into legend with his axe
He’s buffed and brawny, muscles pumped and primed
The hero’s hair is slick with styling wax
And every thrust magnificently timed
The ladies swoon and flock to see him fight
His loin cloth fills a wench’s wettest dream
Today it seems that something isn’t right
He’s out of breath and running out of steam
Back home, he sips his cocoa, laced with gin
And polishes his ‘Best Marauder’ prize
He longs for one more fight and one less chin
And wonders when he’ll start to fossilise
    His eighty-second year has fallen flat
    No pussy now for Derek, just a cat

Captain Odious

by Nick Gisburne

---

He’s a killer, Captain Odious, the deadliest of men
From a kingdom lost in legend to the sea
Long defeated, long forgotten, he returns to fight again
With an appetite for treachery, and tea

Meet his putrid pack of pillagers, the Nauseating Nine
Each as ancient as the cornerstones of Hell
In their antiquated chariots they form a ragged line
They are wanton, they are wicked, and they smell

See the Dark Destroyer, Dennis, bringing misery and pain
From the osteoarthritis in his knees
He commands the Sword of Sorrows, though it’s proving quite a strain
So he gives his faithful butter knife a squeeze

Watch the wizened warlock, Walter, wave the wondrous Wand of Woe
Weaving wobbly wicker baskets with a spell
It’s a hobby, just a sideline when the wizard work is slow
But he makes a tidy profit when they sell

From the Mountain Halls of Majesty (just past the sewage tanks)
Rides the Master of all Dragons, Fred the Flap
He has journeyed many miles to join their creaking, crusty ranks
And he really needs some cocoa and a nap

The Invisible Assassin is a secret stealth machine
Hiding deep inside a fat man’s flabby skin
Though his body has expanded, still his mind is sharp and lean
Like a wine-soaked vagrant drinking bathtub gin

Ted the Torturer, the ugliest Inquisitor in town
Knows the battle will be difficult and long
For his belt is bent and broken, so his pants keep falling down
And he’s having quite a struggle with his thong

There is only one true Norman: he is filthy, he is foul
More than all the other misfits in their band
Fear the bloated Brown Avenger, leering closer with a scowl
For there’s always something sticky in his hand

And with Bob the Bloody Bowman comes the legend you’d expect
He was deadest of the dead-eyes in his youth
Sadly, Abe the Angry Archer holds the title now – I checked
Bob can’t pee into a pot, to tell the truth

Spiteful Stan, the Spirit Silencer, the cruelest by far
Wears a gleaming helmet, made from something cheap
But he died without a warning in the Buccaneers Bazaar
So the others think he’s riding in his sleep

And their leader, Captain Odious, most noxious of the nine
Reached his ninety-seventh birthday, more or less
On this fateful day of destiny his plans will intertwine
Although most of them are tangled in a mess

“Swab the decks, me salty seadogs! Splice the mainbrace! Brew the tea!”
“Haul the Jolly Roger, lads, and pass the grog!”
He has never been a pirate, doesn’t even like the sea
And he doesn’t own a parrot, just a dog

“Blood the kipper tails, ye blaggards! Pinch the rum and chip the tooth!”
“Poop the sails and dip me tackle in the tar!”
These are phrases half-remembered from a far-off wasted youth
But his all-time winning favourite is “Arrrrr!”

All the chariots are parked behind a secret Sunday lair
In the middle of the Dark Destroyer’s camp
Sticky Norman rolls the map out with a flea-infested flair
And they all avoid the yellow patch of damp

With his wizardry, old Walter brings to life the stinky scroll
Using animated beans and talking flies
It’s a clear, straightforward timeline of their tactics as a whole
But the room of vacant stares is no surprise

“Fog and fishes!” Captain Odious alone has understood
Or perhaps can fake it better than the rest
I would separate the meaning of its methods if I could
But it’s bollocks, so in short: it’s just a quest

“We should drown them, using mermaid oil to cook them in their beds!”
Says the Fat Assassin, drooling on his food
“And I’ll bring my special spider sauce in case the chaos spreads”
“In a pillage, troll tastes better barbecued”

“Let us burn their souls to ashes, dancing naked in the dust!”
Ted is keen to add some drama to the doom
“But I need to polish Percy so he doesn’t start to rust”
And he waves his special tool around the room

Bob the Bowman adds the poison to his trusty arrow tips
“I could kill a gorgon twice with one of these”
But his venom’s out of date, so you could eat it with your chips
It’s supposed to freeze the blood, but tastes of cheese

“When my dragons hear the call, we bathe the city streets in flame!”
Fred is serious, but none of it is true
Most are dying, dead or knackered, blind, incontinent or lame
And the youngest one they boiled up in a stew

Prone to fluctuating innards, Dennis modifies the plan
With the ounce of wisdom lurking in his mind
“If I’m sitting on a bucket, start without me if you can”
“I will launch my special weapon from behind”

All now sit around the table thinking harder than they should
Which for some of them means thinking thoughts at all
“Let us vote,” says Walter, “nine of us, a bond of brotherhood”
“We must all agree. No split, however small”

This is wisdom worthy warlocks wield, in weird and whispered ways
And for this approach he finds no clear dissent
So in turn they state their preference: a hoary hand they raise
As their rancid armpits ooze a fearsome scent

There are seven hands, then Dennis, from the bucket, makes it eight
Only Sleeping Stan remains to cast a vote
But deciding who should wake him spurs a furious debate
None will risk his dagger meeting with their throat

Captain Odious, impatient, raps the sleeper on the head
But the action tips him over, cold and stiff
“Bite me biscuits! Wet me powder! He be scuttled! He be dead!”
His demise is swiftly proven with a sniff

There are words of loss and mourning, there are words of grief and woe
But the eight remaining rogues unite with, “Good!”
“What a mean, sadistic scumbag. I do torture, I should know”
Teddy kicks him so his scorn is understood

“Can I put this thing away now?” Norman pokes the mouldy map
And his finger leaves a fungus-tainted print
He has eaten all the magic beans; the flies adorn his cap
And he eyes the rigid body with a squint

“What about the great adventure? What about the splendid quest?”
“What about you shut it?” Bob growls back at Fred
“We need nine to do this caper, and in case you haven’t guessed”
“We are short by one, cos one of us is dead”

“Where’s the kettle?” sighs the Captain, out of character, and glad
“Tea and toast and, oh, a lovely fairy cake!”
“Thanks for all you’ve done here, Dennis. You can drop the anchor, lad
“I just need my comfy slippers. My feet ache”

To the sound of old men grunting, Stan is strapped onto a horse
Seven chariots, one empty, wobble west
Will he get a hero’s casket? Not from criminals of course
But they’ll polish up his helmet to its best

Captain Odious is dozing in the Dark Destroyer’s chair
That’s the rum, a sneaky measure in his tea
In the frying pan, for dinner, two big T-bones, bloody, rare
Both still chew with their own teeth – they each have three

There are ballads, there are legends, of the Nauseating Nine
Of the ruthless Captain Odious they sing
But for him the greatest prize is something simple, something fine:
Boiling water and a teabag on a string

Secret Ending

As the night falls on our fable, let us wobble to the west
To the camp of seven chariots and men
With a miracle, a monumental marvel, we are blessed
For the corpse of Spiteful Stan now lives again!

“You’re a nightmare, you’re a madman, you’re an idiotic toad!”
“What the devil’s arse was that stuff in my drink?”
“You were only meant to knock me out for ten miles on the road”
“Now I feel like I’ve been buried, and I stink”

“That would never hoodwink Odious.” The warlock gives a shrug
“He’d be after us to join him in a week”
“So I had to make it terminal.” His wrinkled face is smug
“And you’re right, you know – you positively reek”

When you’re too old for adventure and you really need a rest
Read a story, take your teeth out, go to bed
And if someone tries to take you on another stupid quest
Drink a potion from a warlock and play dead

Secreted Ending

Norman? Oy! The story’s over. Yes, we’re finished. Bugger off!
Please go home and write some poetry, as planned
No, no, don’t take down your trousers! I don’t want to hear you cough!
That is sticky! Norman! What’s that in your hand?

A Night at The Galloping Dog

by Nick Gisburne

---

They gather together, a villainous crew
In a tavern, The Galloping Dog
With silver they pay for a glutinous stew
And a generous measure of grog

These outlaws and brigands and pirates and thieves
Are the worst of the average best
But knackered or not every bandit believes
In the glory and gold of a quest

“We ride on the morrow!” cheers Gretel the Grim
“We fly like a nail from a toe!”
Her brother, the muscle-bound Derek the Dim
Sees a problem. “We’ve nowhere to go.”

The bald-headed wizard, Cornelius Nit
Rubs the glass of his eye. “Let us think.
Together we’ll find a solution for it
And to this let us toast, let us drink!”

To the treasure we find and the gold in our chest
Let us drink to the glorious quest!

The dwarvish twin brothers, Shambuca and Sod
Bang their swords with a furious crash
“We’ve heard that Tiranto, the mystery god
Has a mountain of jewels and cash”

“He’s bankrupt, all gone in a pyramid scheme,”
Says the innkeeper’s wife, with a wink
“He paid for a dozen, then ran out of steam.
But enough of that, who’s for a drink?”

To the treasure you find and the gold in your chest
Drink your fill to the glorious quest!

Imelda the Ravenous, Queen of the Bite
Spits the crumbs from a mouthful of cake
“I’ve got the wrong britches, this leather’s too tight
And my corsets are starting to ache”

She opens a button, which shatters a glass
As it pings to the back of the bar
“Let’s all have another! It’s giving me gas
But the smell isn’t toxic... so far.”

To the treasure locked up in my glorious chest
Let us drink while I loosen this dress!

“A city of dragons, a river of gold
That’s the rumour I’ve heard from the south”
The warlord is crooked, incredibly old
And he guards the lone tooth in his mouth

“Oh, Dennis, you darling,” laughs Libertine Len
As he freshens the rouge on his cheeks
“Those dragons are drinkers like all of you men
That’s a river of pee, and it reeks”

There’s laughing and drinking, more drinking and more
And the privy door bangs as it shuts
The pirate, Old Percy, has started to snore
But he wakes with a pain in the guts

To the treasure! Oh bugger, I’ve stained me new vest
Gizza drink, it’s a glory-arse quest!

“There’s goblins aplenty,” adds Dylan the Bard
“Very tricky to track, but it pays
To get a good goblin you need to work hard
Ask my wife, that’s what she always says”

A hiccupping elf, lying flat on the floor
Holds a gravy-stained map to his face
“These mountains are taters! Oy, innkeeper! More!
What’s it take to get served in this place?”

To the trouble! The treasure! The gravy! Oh yes!
Leave me down here, I’m making a nest

“It’s time for a sing-song! Go Dylan!” squeals Len
“Do ‘The Legend of Witchfinder’s Hole’!”
“You leave my hole out of it. Never again,”
Says the Witchfinder, “Not with a troll.”

“Do we know where we’re going yet?” Gretel is sad
“We’ve got dreams. We all know what they are.”
“Oh, poor Gretel. What’s yours?” says Methuselah’s dad
Gretel grins. “Pint of grog – there’s the bar!”

He’s flexing, it’s Derek, the challenge is on
Only one of his arms against six
“You’re not even trying.” Their chances are none
And he throws them away like old sticks

I am Derek the Dim, I put oil on my chest
Let us drink as I dead lift the quest!

“Cornelius, magic your way out of that!”
And Imelda grabs hold of his wand
She dances and wears just the wizard’s old hat
No one doubts she’s a natural blonde

Old Dennis, the former destroyer of men
Holds the last of his teeth in the air
“I’ve lost it! I’ve lost it!” “We know you have, Den
But we all have, and none of us care!”

A thunderous, shattering, fairly loud boom
Knocks the drunken old soaks to the floor
The silence which follows envelops the room
Percy lets out a fart, and one more

The steps of a dozen, or more, maybe less
Or a loner with plenty of boots
With no working brains, they have no way to guess
And with no other rhyme, an owl hoots

The door crashes open and framed in its frame
Not the Furies, the Fuzz or the Fates
Not demons or monsters, not f-words of flame
Just Magnificent Mog and her mates

“We’re loaded with jewels and plenty of cash
Give us each a big bucket of grog
We’ve come for the booze, but we need a quick splash
We are busting, so where is the bog?”

Relieved, they return to the harrowing sight
Of a booze-up they’ve already missed
They hand out green potions called ‘Restart the Night’
And they all drink together, re-pissed

To the treasure we found and the gold in our chest
Let us drink to the glorious quest!

The villains of old in The Galloping Dog
Are at one with a new kind of crew
They drink to the plans of Magnificent Mog
And make regular trips to the loo

If ever you travel with gold in your chest
And if ever you’re lost in the fog
The time of your life is all there as a guest
At the glorious Galloping Dog