'Twas the night before Armasse, when all through the city,
All crusaders rejoiced! (Really quite a pity.)
Priests busy tending the wardstone with care,
In hopes that no demons would ever come near;
My cultists would soon be snug in their beds,
While visions of tea-leaves would dance in their heads;
I'd a nice pot of chamomile, the harvest was through,
And I'd just settled down for a nice cup or two,
When back in Kenabres there arose such a clatter,
I peeked from my demiplane to see what was the matter.
To my teacup of scrying I flew like a vrock,
Peered into its waters, and recieved quite a shock.
The wardstone'd been replaced with fire and smoke
Giving the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what might you think that I finally see,
But the Storm King Khorramzadeh, demon ruler of Iz!
With a swing of his sword and a crack of his whip,
He announc'ed his presence. (Geez what a prick!)
More rapid than eagles his cohorts they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, quasits! now, succubi! now, hezrous and omox!
On, dretches! on nabasus! on, mariliths and vrocks!
Into the city! past the watch wall!
Now dash away! crash away! smash away all!"
And then, because writing a poem is ever so hard,
(Although you really must admit, I could've been a bard!)
I decided I'd finish the writing a bit later,
And handed the reigns to The Humble Narrator!