I’d dupe them all with my clever green disguise,
A mere man, mingling among brooding beasts.
No—it was worse. For the bar was cursed,
A lair for the lonely and longing souls.
The patrons were dragons of old,
woeful witnesses of tall tales once told,
chugging elixirs and potions of death—
potent remedies to recharge their breath.
They were the monsters, the misunderstood,
the antithesis of all that was good,
festooned in doom, adorned with horns and scales,
long tangling tails with sharp stiletto tips,
tapering out to stocky heavy hips,
and they were maleficent in their myth—
the whole wicked wretched disgusting lot:
Bill, Darlene, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,
wrinkled and frail from many battles fought,
and won—the end days of a life of fun,
Caroline, last of an ancient bloodline,
in a full flight for a young healthy mate,
and Gertrude, withered and grotesque, but great.
she no doubt had a mean ugly lifestyle,
if I’m to believe the legends are true.
She was a large lumbering type—vile—
ravaged a town or two, as dragons do,
but could it be? I suppressed my denial,
and casually maintained my composure.
A look of shock would risk my exposure.
Collectively they’d torn the world apart.
They spoke of broken homes and broken hearts,
from capital cities to old back roads,
conquering the most chivalrous of codes.
Sooner or later they’d be spitting fire,
as dragons do—for authenticity,
and they’d have the whole damn bar in a blaze.
a cruel but fair fate for the fool that stays.
Behold the dragons of old and their might,
towering over the brave fearless night,
steadfast through volatility and pain,
boldly declaring, “I will not be slain!”
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