A barbarian once I knew-- A man of wondrous fame
Mighty were his pecs and thews. And Greaseham was his name.
His wrath was feared by all his mates, his voice with thunder shook
None there were who said him nay-- For Greaseham was the COOK!
No warrior dread who looked with calm on blood and slaughter rude
Could bear to risk the anger of the man who gave them food!
And in the mountains and the plains, by town or river-front
No view there was so rare and strange as Greaseham on the hunt.
Girt about his massive loins-- an apron, made of chain
His helmet was a soup pot once (and would be so again!)
He carried as a clubbing tool, a massive wooden spoon
And in his great right paw he held the FRYING PAN of DOOM*
Then up he swung on his broad back, a heavy bulging pack
In case the chase was over-long and he should wish to snack
No horse could bear his ponderous weight so heavy did he tred
And as he stalked the ground it shook and all before him fled.
But he cared not for buck and doe, and boar, and minor prey
For they were small and puny, he sought larger far than they
He strode with firm and steady stride into the mountains tall
For there he heard, the Dragon King, lay sleeping in his hall.
And soon he heard the massive snores that echoed underneath
And timing each foot fall to match, into the lair did creep
And there with scales of ruby fire, and fangs a man-length high
The dragon king with unconcern did open up one eye.
"I've fought with mage and paladins, and glory-seekers all
Who thought they 'd take my splendid head to hang upon the wall
I've swatted down my share of thieves, and bards and rangers too
But I'll admit, I've yet to kill a one who looks like you."
But Greaseham was not the least distressed. He spat upon the floor
"You've met a one like me at last, you'll not meet any more.
I don't hold with that glory stuff, and trophies and that rot
The fate you face is better far, you'll end up in my pot.
"Pish-tosh" the Dragon king replied. "Your kind is far to small.
And I'm the greatest of all beasts-- you COULDN'T eat me all."
Then Greaseham roared, "You know me not, I've stomach more than you.
And happily I'll prove it now, and then I'll eat you too!"
The dragons eyes they lit with joy, "a bet!" he cried with glee
"We'll catch a herd or so of cows, and eat them you and me
And if it haps that you should eat the most, and I should not.
Well then it seems that I DESERVE to end up in your pot."
They found the cows, charbroiled them, and then began to eat
And even Great Greaseham had never served up so much meat
They ate with singleminded speed: They chomped and gulped and munched
And dined and chewed and bit and snapped and swilled and sopped and lunched.
And when the dragon king was filled he stopped and raised his head
And found to his intense dismay, Greaseham one cow ahead.
"It can not be!" he tried to rage but found he lacked the will
And slumped with drowsy satedness atop a nearby hill.
And Greaseham stumbled over then, so full he scarce could stand
"I kill you, but it seems I ate so fast-- I ate my hand!"
And thus end's Greaseham's Hunting, Lords, my story is complete
And here's the moral of the song-- Be careful what you eat!
* I stole the Frying Pan of Doom from the wonderful short story
"Utensile Stregnth" by Patricia C. Wrede. It was published in her
anthology Book of Enchantents.
Copyright © 2000 Michelle Bottorff