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This bard’s life has seen many things,
and many things fit for song:
the ancient wyrm’s underbelly
at last run through
in vengeance
of the thousand shields and skulls
littered through his horde,
the serf come squire come knight
crowned king
and to his once-coy princess wed,
the hero’s iron promise kept
beneath an iron axe.
All of that was in the dawn,
when even I was young.
When honor rode on high,
and character was king.
But sometimes
when angels hold them aloft,
men think it is they who can fly.
Then they wish to soar higher,
and fatally push
the angels to the side.
And so man at his peak
is once more seduced
by the sweet, seductive
siren-call
of the second oldest faith:
“Ye shall be as gods”
if only you step away
from the charges
you were supposed to keep.
Those men are hardly foolish,
of late they are knights
and--dare I say--kings.
The former finds honor a prison,
the latter thinks tradition
is nothing
but the ignorance of the past.
So far removed from chaos,
for so long civilized,
too long ago
the bone-cutting barbarism
(that you live through everyday)
they forgot just what they rose from:
from where you green folk have yet to rise.
But before chivalry at last gives way
to more enlightened sorts of thoughts,
why don’t you orcs stand up?
In absence of a paladin
to lead a fairer cavalry,
won’t you
bestial-browed green men
make one desperate
and final plunge
to drink from the hero’s cup?
To dare the dragons you once served!
To rescue the damsels
whose lustrous locks
and soft, gentle forms
you once
would have gnashed and torn
with hungry teeth!
To live that life
that they
whom you so long envied
have in decadence
come to hate.
The door is closing,
orc-breeds!
Dash through before it shuts!
The court now cries for newer tales
whose words I will not sing.
A song where freedom means bondage
(I mean, a bondage of the soul),
where love’s desire is just that desire
that was once mastered by love.
That kingdom of which you were once
so jealous and curious
will become all too soon
all too much like your home.
Tarry no more in raidings
or crouched in trail-side brush
to fall
on travelers ten on one.
Do not forget,
He who made you monstrous
also made you strong.
Your steely backs and quiet stares
were meant for longer, more heroic odds!
So hurry on now, orc-kind!
I shall not call again!
The mountains loom high
but the sun draws low,
for twilight’s soon to fall.
Before the night now,
orc-kind!
Remind man of what he is made of!
Give this bard one final song!
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