...And one barroom brawl
to end them all.
And in darkness pants them.
Sewed shut and given a new hem.
The den of sin--
The tavern we found our selves in.
A drink we had, the news we heard.
Two drunken lords gave us the bird.
The maiden barkeep they mistreated.
The battle was on, and soon it was heated.
The fists they threw,
The tankards too.
While Dewey distracted,
It was I, Fitch who acted.
Taking needle and thread and stuffing it through leather.
I sewed his boots together.
Surprised, that he did not feel,
The needle passing just beyond his heel.
After his act of disgrace,
This chum deserved to fall upon his face.
Obviously he is not the Kwisatz Haderach.
The fight, quickly it got out of control.
Even barrels of ale began to roll.
But the thugs we sent.
The seat of their pants rent.
Oh how hard it is to stride,
Especially to carry your self with pride,
when your boot laces
Are thouroughly tied in many places.
His pants I stiched,
them together I hitched.
I used some glues,
to affix ones hands to his shoes.
My jests I don't lack,
for I furthered the trick
with a tack
Planted firmly in his back.
I thought it pretty slick.
When all was said and done.
The thugs were gone, we'd had our fun.
But, a mess we'd made.
So to clean up we stayed.
In doing so we heard the tale of woe.
Only amid the books I had read
Had I ever heard of undead.
Reanimating those who had not survived.
A necromancer made his residence here.
Of course his ambitions: to take over the world and to spread fear.
Through a corps of corpses
the streets would courses.
We had to know his plan
the plan of this possesse'd man.
Off to the jail we set,
Was their a plan--you bet.
We sought the city record cards,
Owned and stored by naught but the gaurds.
Me, Fitch, an or'inry bloke,
INTO prison I would soon try to broke.
My idea, well it works
But not without quite a few quirks.
So tomorrow you'll have to read,
to find out if I really did succeed.